Gathering the Scattered Pieces: Interlude
by Captain MeraSparrow
Summary: Episode 6: What started out as couple of days to relax and recover all goes wrong. Lies, deceit, fear and suspicion take hold, because even with new friends, dark times are ahead.
1. Vacation

**Chapter One: Vacation**

James blinked at the blinding white sand stretching toward the sea, sand that had moments ago been marble. He looked up to see that they were on a beach—perhaps that of a small island. "Where have you brought us?" he asked, though it was clear that he didn't much care—he was just glad to be away from the Pevensies.

"The rumrunners' isle—the one Jack's guv'nor of. You've been here once before, though I think you landed on the opposite shore," the lass replied, setting down the fox and beginning to walk along the beach, tugging once or twice on the leash so that he would heel. James followed.

"And why is that?"

"I thought you might need some time. You know, away from everything. I would have brought you to Fortitude's Last Berth if I knew where it was. Solitude and a vacation. That's all."

And so they strolled in silence, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves and the occasional cry of a sea bird over head. Amy kept waiting for him to calm down so they could talk, but he never did, remaining deep in thought all the while, opening his mouth every few moments as though about to say something and then abruptly closing it again. After several minutes he stopped, mumbled "I'm going fishing," and promptly pulled off his boots and coat, &c. until he stood in only shirt and trousers (for she had poofed him out of his armour), and waded out into the sparkling blue shallows to wait for the fish.

She sat down cross-legged in the sand to watch. Curiosity nudged her, and she suddenly felt compelled to explore. "Oh stop that," she told the emotion. "I can't leave him just yet." To get rid of the manifestation's influence on her, and figuring he wouldn't be able to get far given that they were, in fact, on an island—and a tiny one at that—she removed his leash and set him loose. Almost at once, he bounded into the jungle and disappeared amidst the green.

She turned back to James. Even from here, she could see shapes swimming around him as though he were but a strange rock or coral formation. Amy wondered at how he could stay so still; if she were to try, she would probably have begun to shake or twitch by now, as one tends to do when they have held a position for too long.

As it were, a larger shape was coursing through the rest—Amy supposed it was a small shark—coming closer, closer. James shifted slowly, smoothly, without disturbing the water, hands stretching out, ready and waiting for the opportune moment. And then he pounced, his hands darted into the water and pulled out the fish. Before it could struggle out of his grasp, he hurled it toward the shore, where it flopped helplessly on the sand. As he approached drawing his knife, Amy turned away, unable to watch it die. "Nice catch," she murmured to James as he came up beside her, his eyes aglow with satisfaction. "What kind is it?"

"Dogfish," he said promptly. "It's actually a shark, if you believe it."

"Either way it looks like we'll have full bellies tonight!"

"Aye. Will you gather some firewood? I'll get to gutting it."

She nodded obligingly, wrinkling her nose at the thought of sticking around for _that_, and proceeded along the beach where she began to collect bark and driftwood. Once into the trees, she spotted a flash of orange and nearly jumped out of her skin as the fox pounced on a trailing palm frond, before laughing and picking up a stick. She hurled it out of the trees to the glittering white sand and he took off after it. For a few moments she stared after him with a small smile before resuming her search for more timber.

By the time she returned to their camp, James had already built up a pile of logs and driftwood that made Amy realize that some of the larger pieces she had collected were mere kindling to these huge chunks of tree. And so, with the help of a little magic, they got a small cooking fire going and toasted their fish (even James did, complaining that this type of fish was unhealthy to eat raw), and quenching their thirst with coconut water.

As darkness began to fall, they got the fire going big and hot, its flames reaching ten feet into the air—easily higher! Ames and James sat side by side in the sand, watching the flames dancing perhaps a jive, or, if one wants to be more period, maybe a paso doble, and embers glittering through the air like falling stardust.

"So are you better now?" she murmured to him, in reference to the case of mistaken identity in Narnia, where the Pevensie children had thought him to be their father; he had reacted in a rather negative and peculiar manner.

"I suppose so," he replied with a swift smile.

"What...What exactly happened? I mean, you seemed awfully, erm... un-you."

He stared into the fire, thinking on his words carefully before speaking. "It...it startled me. But more than that, something happened to me—something..." He trailed off, casting about for a means of explaining such a concept, running a hand through his bushy hair. "I believed that I was not their father. I knew I wasn't, and I couldn't remember ever having been such. But...When they said it, it felt right. I felt like they _were_ my children. I could see his whole life stretching out with them. I _believed_ I was their father, when at the same time I _knew_ I wasn't. I _knew_." His eyes found hers, and she saw his unease. "I believed two contrary things at once, and it scared me." He took a deep breath to calm himself.

Amy looked thoughtfully into the fire. A hunch was growing. "James," she said at length, "you once said that your name was an alias, right?"

He was hesitant to answer. "Yes. To escape persecution as son of a witch."

There was a long silence before she asked, "What was your original name?"

He stared at her, and she could see that he was having a hard time of recalling it. "I...don't remember," he finally stuttered, with a look of defeat. "I've been James Norrington for so long..."

The lass frowned. "But you were definitely never a Pevensie in this life?"

"No," he replied resolutely.

"No, no," she was muttering even before he had answered. "Name wouldn't matter anyways. You must have a parallel in that world that is their father. You don't need to share a name, just an existence—or something like that," she waved a hand vaguely. "One person can be many in the Realms, after all. For instance, in my world, your parallel would be Jack Davenport—the actor who plays you in the films. You're the same person, leading different lives. Or Captain Greenleaf from your story about the _Fortitude_ and Gordy the Janitor. They're the same person, but not."

James blinked slowly. "That makes sense in a confusing sort of way," he said with a lopsided smile.

She gave him a sympathetic look. "Sorry."

He only widened his grin and pulled her to him in a one-armed embrace as they resumed staring into the fire. "Times like these I'm glad I've got you to set me to rights."

—

"Do you see that one there? That bright one?"

"Yeah?"

"That is the bowsprit of the great ship, the _Constellation_."

"Creative name."

"Oh come now. You have to admit, it's a good name for a ship, even if she _is_ made of stars."

"I see it now! It really _is_ shaped like a ship."

James lifted his head from the sand to look at her. "Beg pardon?"

"Look." Amy hummed a tune began to weave her arms with spellmaking, and when he looked up he could see more stars which had not been there before making up the shape of a light, two-masted galleon. Dark clouds swirled around to fill in the places where the sails would have been, as well as spiraling into cloudy waves as the heavenly vessel took sail across the sky.

James sighed with content. "Beautiful."

"So what's her story?"

"Hmm?"

"You know, the legend about how she got into the sky."

"Oh." He propped himself up on his elbows, donning the storytelling voice he had developed from all the tales he had been begged to tell the ship's boys and midshipmen. "Well... ...It has long been told that the _Constellation_ was a ship that sailed herself, a spirit all her own. She was the swiftest and most powerful ship in the world, and all sailors coveted her. Men tried to capture and command her, but she was nimble and always evaded their traps. But one man succeeded, after chasing her relentlessly across the seven seas and at last trapping her in the shallows of treacherous shoals. That was Triton. He had an enchanted sword that he used to control her. Once in captivity, though, the _Constellation_ longed for the freedom to roam the seas, seas which no one knew but her.

"But her captain was harsh and cruel, and handled her roughly. He forced her to sail into conditions she would normally avoid, with little regard for the damage she took because he thought her an enchanted vessel instead of a living soul. When the storms would subside and the clouds had cleared, she would look up at the night sky and see the stars stretching away beyond the horizons. 'I would I were a star, that no man could ever catch me,' she thought. And so, one night, when her captain was asleep in port (and him having no crew, for the ship sailed herself), she slipped her cables and stole away to the sky. She has sailed beyond the clouds ever since."

"Let me guess," the lass grinned, "Hannah told you that one."

"Actually no." James crossed his arms behind his head, watching the celestial ship dip her bows into the cloudy waves. "I heard it from the quartermaster of the _Falcon_ when I first became a ship's boy. Did you know that the bowsprit is also the Great Western Star?"

"_Really?_ We don't have a West Star in my world. Just a North one."

James chuckled. "It is said that the _Constellation_ is sailing west so that the rising of the sun in the East cannot fade her light."

"That's cool," she commented after a moment's thought. They watched the ship sail through the clouds. "Oh—look! Someone's fired across her bow!" Amy pointed at a shooting star.

"Make a wish."

All their troubles forgotten, she replied, "I couldn't possibly think of anything to wish for."

"Nor I."

And such was their carefree conversation as the night wore on and the fire burned like a beacon on the beach; not a care in the world, nor a sense of urgency or danger. Perhaps if it had not been night, someone would have noticed white sails on the horizon.

* * *

><p>Yeah yeah fluffity fluff. It doesn't stay that way, don't worry. Who's coming to the island? Anyone care to venture a guess?<p> 


	2. Something's Not Right

**Disclaimer****:** **In the course of my fanfic-writing career, James Norrington has been beaten, bitten, tortured, injured, killed, killed again, been emo, depressed, suicidal, and mentally ill. The fangirls would have killed me by now if I owned it. XP**

**Chapter Two: Something's Not Right.**

Morning. James was awakened from a deep, deep sleep by the shuffling of feet and murmuring of voices. He sensed that he was surrounded, but he struggled to wake fully and could not rouse his senses. "Who's he?" a voice asked as he stirred.

"Is 'e dead?" another asked.

"Wait," said a new voice, which seemed vaguely familiar. "I know him." Feet shuffled in the sand, and someone kicked his foot a few times to wake him.

James startled awake, nearly bolting upright only to find that, had he done so, he would have impaled himself on the bayonet pointed at his chest. Blinking away the sleep, he finally saw that he was surrounded by redcoats (though only the one had arms at the ready). There, standing at his feet, the one who had wakened him; the one who had been his closest friend and was now staring at him with a cold dislike: Theodore Groves. Norrington looked about the beach, but there was no sign of Amy. Had they already caught her? No, he would hear her putting up a fight if that were the case.

Observations and assessments of the situation complete, he turned his gaze back to Theodore and blinked. "Morning," he rumbled pleasantly, as though there were no firearm pointed at his heart. "Fancy meeting you here."

"We saw the fire," Groves explained curtly.

James rolled his eyes at his own carelessness, and in doing so, saw something amiss. "Theodore, I must say that your soldier's bayonet is quite crooked," he changed the subject, reaching for the edge of the musket. The soldier jabbed him in the chest with it. "Calm down, I'm just straightening it out." Calmly, he unscrewed the knife to fix it. "Jumpy, aren't they?" His gaze flitted to Theodore's. "Have you not taught your men better?"

"Fortunately they are not my men."

"Ah. You're just in charge of them."

"Solely for this expedition."

"So it's you, then," James said in soft irony, without looking up. "It's not even polished! What _are_ they teaching them these days?" He wiped the blade on his shirt as the soldier looked on warily. "Honestly. How new to this are you?"

"I've been in the service for two years."

"Under faulty leadership, no doubt." The soldier jabbed the musket at him. Only laughing softly that he had offended the redcoat, though careful not to make any sudden movements, James screwed the bayonet back onto the musket, then held his hands palm-out to show the soldier that he made no threat. What they didn't know was that while he had been polishing the blade on his shirt, he had gotten his knife at the ready, and now, as he lowered his hands, it slid unseen into his grasp.

"Thanks," the soldier said curtly, although now he no longer expected the prisoner to attack.

"You're welcome." And he promptly jammed his knife into the soldier's foot. In the ensuing moment of confusion, he wrenched the gun out of his grasp, somersaulting backwards onto his feet, and turned to flee. Blasted island! There was nowhere to run. But wait, what of the rum locker? They didn't know where it was, and if he could lose them just long enough, he would be able to hide and they'd have little luck finding him. But what about Amy? He could not just leave her, wherever she might be. Who knew what the Navy might have done with her? If he let them catch him, there was a good chance they would leave without ever knowing of her presence. And then she would come after him anyway, which put a damper on that plan.

All the while that he was thinking, he was dodging through the trees. Pistol fire rang out around him (as even these soldiers were not so incompetent to have come to claim him totally unarmed.) Fear sped through him: they might shoot the girl! _Amy?_ he thought frantically, desperately hoping that she was in his mind.

_I'm here. I hear gunshots. What's going on?_

_No time to explain. Are you safe? Are you hidden?_

_I'm fine. We've bunkered down in the rum locker._

He winced. So he could have hidden there after all. Too late now, and besides, the Navy would just wait for them to come out for food, anyway. _They're right on my tail._

_Who?_

_The Navy. I'm going to let them catch me._ Even as he thought this, he doubled back toward the beach.

_What? Why!_

He smiled humorlessly, slowing his pace so that the company could catch up. _Well, love, I'd really rather not be shot, you know?_ There. They had cornered him in the shallows. He laughed with amusement at his predicament. "The isolation of an island—a blessing and a curse." He tossed his knife out of reach and the musket into the shallows—much to the chagrin of its owner—and raised his hands in surrender.

"Indeed," Groves replied coldly. "Truss him up and bring him aboard." And so, the soldiers roughly pulled his hands behind his back and clapped him in irons—much rougher than necessary—and led him to the long boat. As they kicked off, rowing toward the ship-of-the-line not far off, he only stared silently at the jungles they were leaving behind, where he knew Amy was watching.

Several minutes later, they bumped lightly against the hull of a huge ship. Flanked by redcoats, all with weapons pointed at him, he was unbound, and climbed onto the deck of what he observed to be the _Oblivion_—which he knew held the nickname of _No-Second-Chances. _Well that just made everything better, didn't it? When his bare feet touched the planks, his arms were tightly restrained by a handful of lobsters. He didn't struggle; rather only looked around. _At last! A Navy ship!_ It seemed so long since he had been on a ship—and even longer since he'd been on what he considered to be a 'decent' ship. Despite the fact that these 'decent' ships were now the ones that pursued him as he had once pursued others.

"Sparrow's island, was it?" he heard Groves sneer behind him "Been consorting with pirates again?"

James shrugged, despite his restraints. "Beats consorting with reptiles."

"That would be Captain Mandel," a new voice corrected him, and he looked up to see said captain, a cruel-looking man with anger lines on his face and a perpetual scowl.

"Like I said," the rebel replied cheekily.

Mandel surged forward until he and Norrington were nose to nose, glaring dangerously. "Why you miserable little—."

"What?" he was cut off. "Swine? Bastard? How about scum? Would you like tea with that? Surely, with two lumps of son of a bitch, and a generous helping of bilge rat on the side." Amy would have been proud. And surprised. "Can't make up your mind?" He tsked. "Behold the great captain! Can't even decide on a fitting insult."

Mandel's face only twisted into a slimy evil smile. "I see a mouse," he said. "One that the cat will surely catch." Ah, so it was to be the nine-tailed whip. The highest insult, to whip a man who was so greatly his senior in the Navy.

James met his gaze with a silent challenge. "Let's have it then."

Obviously frustrated by his prey's lack of fear, Mandel shouted, "Bo'sun! Let the cat out of the bag!"

"How many, sir?"

"Twelve."

"Yes, Captain. Strip him and shackle him to the mast!" the burly bo'sun ordered.

James was forced to the mast, where he barely had time enough to remove his shirt before he was roughly locked into chains that would prevent him from dodging the strike of the whips. "You know, a little courtesy wouldn't hurt," he muttered as the redcoats stepped out of range of the 'cat, but they ignored him. With a sigh, he braced himself against the mast, leaning forward and presenting his back, already laced with old scars of battle and punishment.

He listened as the whip was unraveled and checked for weakness in the leather, as the bo'sun took a preparatory breath and drew back. The tails whistled out and knotted leather scored across his back, tearing at flesh, biting into his shoulders. He did not flinch. In fact, he sighed. Ah, pain. It felt so good, this kind of pain. It sent fire through his being; it made him feel alive. The whip tore at him again, and again. After the fifth, he only chuckled and said, "I do believe your man is holding back. Is this the best you've got?" Even as he spoke, the flogging continued, and his voice skipped on the words 'do' and 'best' when the leather met his back.

He sensed Amy enter his mind. She had been swimming after them, and now was clinging to the bulwarks, watching the scene in shock. _They're bloody whipping you!_

_Thanks, love, I hadn't noticed._

_What for?_

_I was, ah, a bit loose with my tongue, you might say._

"Bo'sun," the captain replied to the earlier comment, "Harder. And give him an extra six for his own enjoyment."

This time, James grunted in pain, jerking involuntarily at his shackles. A subtle smile spread across his face, and he closed his eyes. "That's more like it," he mumbled with satisfaction.

_Hang in there, James! I'll get you out!_ And he could sense her beginning to use her magic.

_No!_ He felt her bewilderment in his mind. _They could find you out, and then where would you be? Burning again. Do not risk the stake—not for something I have experienced before._

_But James— _

_It's not a question, Amy._ He gasped in pain, and shuddered inwardly with pleasure. _Do not risk the stake again. I'll be fine._ He severed their connection before she could protest further.

The twelve were nearly up, and he could feel the warm wet of blood as it spilled down his back. But even as the twelfth was cast, something was slowly beginning to happen—something definitely not right. Grunts of pain transformed into a low laughter. An unnatural kind of laughter. Any man standing on the other side of the mast could see him smile in such a disconcerting way as the final half a dozen commenced.

And soon, that smile turned to rage—or, to put things more rightly, it had been rage all along. Amy, having ignored James's orders, had been focusing on weakening the metal of the chains just a little. She realized too late what was happening as the man suddenly jerked around to face the redcoats, snapping the weakened chains as though they were cheap linen. The 'cat had already been cast, but he easily caught the leather strips and ripped them from the bo'sun's hand. With a very mion-like snarl, he leapt at the nearest redcoat, pinning him to the deck. The soldier squealed in surprise, then terror, as strong fingers closed around his throat.

In a smooth movement, before any man could so much as cock their hammer, James rolled off his victim, taking a pistol and sword with him. When he regained his feet, he was surrounded by redcoats, all with guns at the ready, yet all intimidated by the wild look in his eyes.

Captain Mandel, finally looking somewhat concerned, stepped forward, only to find the madman's pistol trained on him; immediately, all the muskets were in turn pointed at him. "Is this wise, Mr Norrington?"

"What have you done with her?" James demanded.

Mandel seemed to relax slightly. "With whom?"

"Mother." Mandel was about to relax, thinking him to have the mental and emotional capacity of a child, as some do, before the man went on in an outraged snarl through bared teeth, "You killed her!"

"I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Give her back." James swung in a circle, the pistol and sword pointing at each man in turn, calling out in a hollow voice, "Mommy... Come out, come out, wherever you are... " His face was a disturbing mixture of rage, panic, and glee. "Where are you hiding?"

The captain narrowed his eyes. "Mr Norrington, in this world the dead remain dead. Whoever this woman was, if she's dead then she cannot be brought back to—."

"Then you will die too!" But before he could pull the trigger, the redcoats and lieutenants darted between them, herding him away and blocking his aim. Seeming to lose spirit, he backed away from them, holding up the sword and pistol defensively. They followed him, ready to corner him, until he backed into the bulwarks. Crying out in pain and anger, for the wounds on his back had hit the wood and left a bloody mark, he proceeded to whirl around and hack a chunk out of the offending rail.

The company saw this as an opportunity to tighten their proximity, but James whirled around again before they could make their move, sword and gun ready for attack. His wild ice-green eyes scanned over the redcoats, midshipmen, lieutenants, and other officers with a predatory gaze, waiting for any man to make a wrong move. "Steady men," the captain ordered, watching them as though observing a cricket match. "No sudden movements."

Amy, at last seeing an opportunity, scurried along the top of the bulwarks with almost perfect balance toward her kin. Groves, who was nearest the rail, looked sharply at her, and with momentary shock recognized her. "Stop, Miss Norrington," he hissed.

She acknowledged him with only a glance as she ignored his order—or perhaps a plea—and continued on her way. Spotting movement at the edge of his vision, James suddenly trained the pistol on her, sword still held defensively against the Navy men. She met his gaze and was chilled by the barren coldness there, like an antarctic wasteland. For a few moments she stared shakily down the barrel not ten feet away. Then, taking a deep breath, she cocked her head and donned a pleasant expression. "Ja-ames," she crooned in her most soothing, sing-song motherly voice. "Here I am, James. You found me." Something changed in his eyes—she didn't know what; they were still wild, but they were _his _now—and though the firearm was still pointed at her, she felt that she could climb down from the bulwarks and so approach him, slowly, smoothly, with a pleasant and innocent smile.

"Aren't you tired of being unhappy all the time?" she asked softly, walking past the weapon to meet him face to face. He made no move to adjust his aim. In fact, he continued to stare at the place where she had been standing. He gave no indication that he had heard what she'd said, but she knew he was listening. At a loss for anything else to say or do, she hugged him, wrapping her arms about his waist where the injuries from the flogging seemed to be the least. Resting her head against his shoulder and trying not to cry, she could hear and feel his heart dancing a frantic jig. "Come back," she whispered.

Slowly, painfully slowly, his arms began to lower until they were at his sides, the weapons drooping and pointing nowhere. Tremors ran through him as he struggled to regain control, and, gasping with the effort, he jerked his hands open, and the sword and pistol fell to the deck. Amy sighed with relief and leaned against him as his arms wrapped around her and he nuzzled into her hair. She could feel him shaking. "My 'ead," he mumbled to her, voice etched with pain. "It hurts."And his embrace weakened as he dropped in a dead faint.

"James!" She tried to catch him, easing him to the ground, cradling his shoulders and head. She touched his face to wake him, but he was out cold. "You poor thing," she whispered, cupping his cheek and laying him down. She wanted to cry—for him going through that, and for her almost being shot—but as always, no tears would come.

* * *

><p>:D<p> 


	3. Chowder

**Chapter Three: Chowder**

Groves crept warily closer to the unmoving form of the man who had once been his friend and leader. "All right, men, he's done."

"Carry him to the brig," a man Amy assumed to be first lieutenant ordered.

"Are you mad?" the girl cried. "Take him to the sick bay! He needs to be cared for."

The man surged forward, and she met him unflinchingly. _Yup, she's definitely a Norrington_, Groves thought as he observed her composure. "You should know your place, _girl_," the first mate growled.

"Oh I'm perfectly aware of my place, thank you," she replied hotly, "although _you_, sirrah, could stand to receive further education." She turned to appeal to Groves instead. "A cage is no place for a madman, nor an injured one, and he is both. If his back gets infected, he could well die, which would mean you've killed him—and, well, you know how things are about killing the insane..." And she dearly hoped that killing the insane was a societal taboo. Her expression softened with the plea. "At least until his back is better."

Groves looked up at the first mate, then to the captain. "A few days couldn't hurt, could it, sir?" he asked as though he didn't care which way it went.

"Let it be done," the captain ordered, looking disdainfully at the unconscious form. "We'll let the government do with him what they will."

"You two," Groves selected a pair of sailors, "carry him to the sick bay. Feet first down the companions in case you drop him."

"Oh, be gentle," fretted the girl as she followed them belowdecks. Groves, unable to appeal to her to stay out of the way, could only follow to supervise. They set James down on his side on a bunk in one of the cabins reserved for the inevitable loonies picked up by press gangs. It was a small room with a bed bolted to the deck, its posters reaching up to the ceiling, a small table, a wooden chair and a single, though pleasant, window that let in the golden sunlight. Noting this last feature, the lass deduced that they must be rather aft. In one far corner, a second wooden chair with arm rests. In the other, a small chest. She immediately liked the room.  
>(And here, in her journal, the authoress sketched a lovely drawring of said delightful cabin, which looks almost nothing like the way she pictured it in her mind.)<p>

The surgeon walked in and Groves rose to confer with him in hushed voices. Amy only caught snippets of their conversation as she kneeled beside her nephew and watched him sleep. "...was flogged. ...started laughing. ...right out of his chains. ...nearly shot the girl. ...absolutely mad..." After a while, she drowned it all out, and was thus surprised a few minutes later when a hand came down on her shoulder. She looked up to see Groves gazing down at her sympathetically. "The surgeon has agreed to take care of him. He's gone to fetch his things; we ought to be out of here before he returns."

"We?"

"Unless you wish to roam the ship alone—I wouldn't advise it. Are you hungry?" he offered.

"Starving," she had to admit.

"Then let's find you some food." She rose wearily and, with a long look at James, she stalked out of the room. Theodore walked over to his former friend and lay a hand on his arm. "Don't worry," he promised, "I'll take care of her." Sighing at the circumstances of the day, he straightened up and left the room to join the lass.

—

She was pleasantly surprised when they reached the galley. It was large and spacious, and was well-lit by sunlight—a polar opposite from the dark, cozy kitchens of the _Black Pearl_ or the _Sunrise_, though she imagined that, when it was crammed with crew and soldiers, this place would be just as snug. But right now, with its two long, mostly empty tables, it was an open, luxurious dining hall. A handful of redcoats were seated toward the far end of one of the tables, having a conversation over light helpings of hard tack and water—the latter surprised her, for she had not been expecting anything other than ale.

"I had been planning on dining in the wardroom, but it's peaceful enough in here for now. Impressed?" Groves asked with mostly-hidden amusement.

"Let's just say I've seen worse. What kind of ship is she?"

"Her own class. One of the largest of her kind in His Majesty's fleet. Larger even than most first-rate ships-of-the-line." Yup. Impressive. She climbed over the long bench to seat herself. "Now, what can I get for you?"

"What's on the menu?"

"Well, aside from salt pork and sauerkraut, let's see... Oh, it looks like the cook has just put on the daily chowder. Would you like some of that?"

"What's in it?"

The leftenant winced. "We've learned not to ask."

The lass surprised him by laughing. "Sounds perfect! As long as it smells good, I'm game."

Smiling, he went to negotiate a helping from the cook. "There you are," he set a crock of steaming soup before her, along with a napkin and a metal spoon, as opposed to wood like others. He set a stein nearby. All of these seemed to have come from the wardroom, since mess kits wouldn't have contained any. "I wasn't sure if ale would do—."

"I can't say I'm much of a beer drinker, but don't worry, it's fine," she assured him. "Although some rum or brandy wouldn't be amiss..." She didn't know if brandy had been invented yet. She inhaled deeply. "Mmmm, smells delicious." And she dove into the soup before she could speculate on what was in it. It was white and creamy, with chunks of potatoes in it, as well as clam, and she speculated the recipe was an improvised version of—or perhaps predecessor to—the famous New England clam chowder of which she was so fond in her own world. There was a scattering of other vegetables and meats as well, such as bits of shark she identified, like what she and James had shared the previous night. There were other things in there she couldn't identify, which were chewy or stringy and tasted strange, that made the girl glad she had no food allergies.

She had to force herself to slow down a few times, though—she hadn't eaten all day—because one, she would probably make herself sick, and B, the officer who had seated himself beside her was probably expecting at least _some_ level of civility...

When finished, she pushed the empty crock away and leaned back in her chair, dabbing at her mouth with the napkin. "You certainly went through that quickly," Groves commented.

"I skipped breakfast," she replied. "I'm usually never hungry until very late in the morning, and by that time James was being beaten into insanity for God-knows-why."

"And how was it?" the Lieutenant obtusely went on about the chowder. "Not too potent, I hope?"

"You just don't care, do you?" she asked in her I-only-sound-calm-because-the-brain-is-a-fragile-thing voice.

"I'm not at liberty to say, Miss—."

"Not true. You're at liberty to say 'No, I don't care,' but not at liberty to say 'Yes I do.'" Ah, barely into the argument and she was already running logical circles around him. Amid her irritation, the girl felt a mild satisfaction about that feat: it was a new record! "But then, if your answer had been 'No,' you would have said so. Since you didn't, and you're not at liberty to say what you want, I suppose that is answer enough in itself." She paused to think carefully on her next words. "But if you did care, why didn't you at least even try to stop it from happening?"

"What, the flogging? I hate to be rude, but he was asking for it, with all the cheek he was giving Mandel. He wasn't insane when it first started out, and when things started to slide out of control —I would have been risking it all to defend him in _any _state of mind—."

"Dammit, he's your friend!" she jumped to her feet, surprising him again as well as the redcoats farther down, whose heads shot up to look at them. "Doesn't that mean anything?"

Groves could only stare. After a long, tense silence, he finally managed some level of humour. "Do people your age often ask such difficult questions?"

"Only when the people they're asking aren't using their brains."

—

He blinked his eyes open, finally awake. He was lying on his side in a bunk, facing the opposite wall of what he recognized to be an overnight sickbay cabin. He tried to shift position, and upon finding that he could not move, suddenly wondered if he had died. Gradually, he became aware of the pain—that which reminds us all that we are still alive—in every inch of his body. Amid the terrible aching in his arms, torso, and legs, and the pounding in his head, he vaguely recognized the distantly familiar sting of a salve on the wounds scoring his back, and felt bandages and poultices shifting as he breathed.

For a brief moment, he tried to piece together in his mind what had happened; the events that had led up to his being admitted into an overnight cabin. But the pain in his head made it difficult to think clearly, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut as the room spun violently. And so, disoriented and exhausted, he retreated to a semiconscious state.

The cool feel of a damp cloth on his forehead momentarily roused him. His eyes fluttered, and in that fleeting glimpse, he thought he saw his mother. He lost consciousness almost immediately, but his single waking thought followed to him to his dreams: he didn't know if it had been dear Amy, or his mother's spirit who had been comforting him, but one thing was for sure: at least he was no longer alone.

Amy had stirred from her thoughts when his eyes opened. "James?" she murmured hopefully. She badly wanted to talk to him. But he was already out. She sighed and dropped the rag into the wooden basin, the water sloshing softly. She ran her eyes over his body. Around his sides was bruising, just from the sheer force with which he'd broken his chains. The doctor said he'd broken ribs. Those chains—or rather, what was left of them—had not been removed. Instead, they had been bolted to the bedpost. He would have been tied to the bed, but the doctor had insisted he would be better off on his side than on just his stomach, or worse, his poor back. One of his shoulders was badly swollen—and it wasn't the usual one—and the lass was certain he'd torn something, or perhaps dislocated. The thought of the latter possibility brought to surface worry over the knee that had been dislocated so many months ago. He had put an enormous strain on his body to have broken free of his restraints, and now he was paying for it. With another sigh, she touched his cheek before standing and walking out of the room.

She found her way topside, pensive, and breathed deep the salty sea air—it had really been too long since she felt the pitch and the roll of the sea beneath her feet. It had been several weeks in Narnia, when here it had really been barely a moment. In the corner of her eye, she noticed Captain Mandel approaching her, face taut with a strict discipline. Before he could address her, she turned and headed for the ratlines, scaling them with the ease of a rated ordinary sailor. She felt the surprised stares of several crew watching as she monkeyed up the mast and into the shrouds, but she forced herself to ignore them. She was going up to think, not show off.

At last, she hauled herself into the crosstrees, leaning against what was left of the mast (for it only extended a little farther up) and looking out over the rolling sapphire waves to the horizon. It was such a pleasant day, and she was forced not to enjoy it. In fact, she wished this day had never had a chance to happen; that she'd just poofed them back to Tia Dalma's with the fox and... Realization dawned on her. Or rather, it right clubbed her in the head. "Shit," was all she could say.

* * *

><p>:D<p> 


	4. Lullaby

**Chapter Four: Lullaby**

Squinting brown eyes surveyed the tiny island. Where was it? It was still here, wasn't it? Had something got it? Amy blinked and raced toward the trees, scattering sand in all directions, calling for the fox. The island was utterly silent, as though it were completely lifeless. Her calls almost seemed eerie in the way they cut through the silence. Beginning to panic, she made her way to the rum locker, frantically searching for the hollow tree marking its entrance. She was startled from her quest by a raucous alarm call, and a bird shot out of the undergrowth. Immediately after it came an orange blur, clearly very hungry. It stopped when it saw the girl, and sat, grinning and panting. Amy let out a breath of relief. "There you are. Come on, let's get you home."

—

They appeared at the door to the shack in the bayou. Knocking to announce their presence, Amy let herself in. Tia Dalma bustled out to greet them, then stopped short, face falling slightly. "Where is de Commodore?"

"Trouble. How long have we been gone?"

"Three days."

The girl staggered. "_What?_ It should only have been one!"

"De time diff'rence is not de same for all Realms. 'T least was only two days more."

"But that means two days _less_ that we have to find the last manifestation before _Dead Man's Chest _comes out." She gave a frustrated sigh. "I should have learned my lesson with Kingdom Hearts: go back to the original world first before coming back here. If we had just gone back to the wardrobe first..."

"At least ya back now."

"Yeah, but it was pure luck that I remembered the fox back on the island. At least now I know he'll be somewhere safe."

"Nowhere is truly safe dese days," Tia Dalma warned gravely. The fox leapt onto the divination table to sniff at the witchdoctor's dress. She scooped it up, stroking its head as it looked up at her with big amber eyes. "Ya mus' bind dis one wit' the others."

"I can't. I need to save my strength. I know this is important, but James is being held a madman on a Navy ship. I fear what they may do to him." For the first time, Amy saw uncertainty flicker across Teacher's face. "Something's gone wrong with him. Something's been wrong for a while, and I don't know what to do. It's like I'm losing him."

—

"Well, she damn well isn't in his cabin. Has the rigging been checked, sir? She's proven herself perfectly capable of going aloft."

"The men have searched every inch of my ship, Lieutenant," Mandel growled, eyes flashing. "Either she's jumped ship, or she is right under our noses."

"The latter seems to present itself as more likely, and you know, sir, I wouldn't be surprised if she had disguised herself in uniform."

The captain looked at him sharply. "You speak of that harlot like you know her."

"Not well, sir. I only know her to be Norrington's niece and a tad eccentric."

"Eccentric? I'd say touched in the head. Must run in the family." And Mandel laughed at his own wit. Groves pursed his lips, but had the sense not to otherwise show his disapproval. "You ever met the girl?"

"Not formally, sir, although I was there when she got arrested."

"Arrested for what?"

"For happening to be in the company of one Jack Sparrow, sir."

"Harlot. That's all I'll say."

"You are too hard on her, sir."

"There's no evidence to the contrary." Groves did not reply. "How old is she?"

"Fifteen, I think, sir."

"So he's plucking young maidens off the streets now. I wonder what Mr. Norrington's reaction was when he found out, back when he still upheld the law."

"I don't think it was like that, sir."

"You're probably right. She is a bit young, even for Sparrow."

"Judging that James deserted because Sparrow was his brother—or so he said—I think it is safe to say that she treats them both as relatives, sir," Groves suggested.

Mandel nodded in appreciation of the logic. "Jack Sparrow—now there's a name that will be forgotten in a hurry."

Groves looked surprised. "Sir?"

"Haven't you heard? Rumour has it that 'Captain' Jack Sparrow is dead."

"_Dead_, sir?"

"Apparently he's vanished from the seas, and his ship's been put on the stocks somewhere. Don't know how much faith to put in it, but I'd welcome that news any day. A particularly annoying pest, wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant?"

Theodore's dubious reply was interrupted as the surgeon appeared, saluting. "She's in his cabin, sir. I know you were looking for her." At a nodded dismissal from the captain, he disappeared back down the way he'd come.

Groves and Mandel shared a glance, and the latter nodded a silent order, turning back to the business of running his ship. Sighing and wondering how the girl had escaped notice, Theodore climbed down after the surgeon. He crept along the corridor into the sickbay, toward the last cabin on the right, and paused at the door. Beyond it, he could hear a voice singing softly. It was a cheerful tune, and fast-paced, and as he silently opened the door, he could hear the words more clearly—not that he understood any of them, for they were in another language in what sounded like Welsh, or perhaps Gaelic. Being a Welshman by birth, he discarded the former possibility.

"Seallaibh curaidh eoghain" was a line he thought he heard being repeated many times, and part of him wanted to stay and appreciate her voice, having spent much time at sea and rarely getting the chance to hear a female voice, but he had to know what she was up to. Shaking his head to clear it, he made himself focus instead on what she was so busy with. He saw a hammock strung up against the far wall, hanging just below the window, and the lass was hanging up a light curtain around it for privacy's sake.

"Where did these come from?" he blurted out before he could stop himself, and she whirled around to face him, her mouth snapping shut, her song meeting an abrupt end. He got the sense that she didn't like to be heard when she sang.

She stared at him in surprise for a couple of moments before it registered in her mind that he had asked her a question. "Doctor loaned 'em to me."

"But surely you'd want another cabin? Perhaps next door, or across the hall."

"And be all by my lonesome on a ship full of hostile—and probably bored—strangers of the even-_lesser_ sex?" Groves raised his eyebrows. "And what of poor James? Who'll be there to comfort him when the nightmares come, if not me? And yes, there'll be nightmares. And when he finally wakes up from the state you've put him in? He'll want an explanation that I doubt anyone else on this ship besides me can give." The navy man looked confused at this. "You don't know the real reason behind all this."

"And you're not going to tell me these reasons, are you?" he asked with just a tinge of frustration.

"I'd tell anyone I thought cared enough." Which blatantly meant she thought he didn't.

Unnerved by this, Groves could only sputter, "Sleep where you want. The captain already thinks you are a whore as it is." And he left the room, muttering something about sleeping in a grown man's quarters as he closed the door behind him.

With the small slam of said door, the sleeping James grunted and opened his eyes. He only lay there, blinking as his senses wandered back to him. He attempted to get up, and discovered himself bound. "They didn't want you to lash out," the lass explained, helping him to sit.

"Why would I?" he asked slowly.

"Don't you remember?" she asked with concern.

He stared into space. "I thought it was a dream. I was being flogged, then I wasn't. I was somehow high in the sky, flying. There were storm clouds everywhere, and lightning all around, and I was flying right into it." He blanched at the memory, as though it had been frightening. "Then, suddenly, everything sort of went fuzzy, and I came to, topside," he nodded toward the upper decks, "and you were hugging me. Then I fainted." His head throbbed painfully and he ground his forehead against the very bedpost attached to his wrists as though it would ease the pain. He sensed her hurrying to his side, and soon felt that wonderful cool of a damp cloth dabbing at his face. He sighed in appreciation. "What...what happened?" he at last managed to ask.

Looking grave, she described what had taken place. His brows came together in horror. "Why would I do that?"

"Do you remember the Seeing Sleep? You lashed out then, too."

His eyes widened. "I _did?_ Why can I not remember it? I could've—I almost—Amy, what's happening to me?"

She met his gaze and for the first time saw fear there, real fear. "I talked to Tia Dalma. She said that the Seeing Sleep removes the conscious mind from the body and allows it to travel between the Realms. But it is much easier to separate the two than to bring them back together again, and so often they won't properly seal together. That means that the consciousness can sort of drift away from time to time, leaving the body to be controlled by the subconscious. Every fear, shadow, demon; everything that had ever been repressed would come to the surface to consume the body. Every private thought, feeling, or doubt, everything left unsaid or unacknowledged, becomes the 'surface' because the surface that had been covering it is gone." He looked very confused at this. "Think of it like an orange. The rind is the consciousness. You peel away the rind and toss it away. The surface of the orange is now the soft stuff inside. That's what happened. Your mind went to another Realm and left your body to be operated and maintained by your subconscious." Tia Dalma had explained that James's search for his mother had actually been a search for his niece, because he subconsciously associated her with his mother. Playing along the way she had had been exactly the right thing to do.

"And—and will I get better?"

"Over time, yes. She said your consciousness will eventually re-seal itself. The realms your mind will go to will be closer and closer, until it stops leaving altogether."

"Have I done anything else?"

She debated on telling him. "You've said some things I don't think you'd normally say, and reacted in ways I don't think you would have otherwise."

After having her describe these events, James gritted his teeth and stared at the floor with glittering eyes. "So in essence, I cannot lie. Every doubt and fear will be given a voice, even if I discard them as foolish." Amy could understand his frustration. His mask had basically been shattered, and his self control sporadic. At last he looked back up at her, looking very weary. "And have I hurt you?"

She smiled weakly and shook her head. "I was just confused. But I figured there must be a reason for it. I'm not too worried. I mean—I'm not getting any bad vibes about it." He blinked, unsure whether to feel comforted or despair. "The way I see it," she went on briskly, and he raised his head to meet her energy, "you'll probably have outbursts of insanity every once in a while. They seem to be spurred by emotional and physical triggers."

"What set me off, then?" he asked, shifting against his restraints.

She stared at the deck, thinking. "The ordeal in Narnia—where the kids thought you were their father—that was emotionally stressful for you. And you were barely recovered from that when the Navy chased you halfway around the island whilst raining down musket shot. And the twenty by the cat sure didn't help things any."

"That doesn't explain why I attempted to kill the captain—or you."

She regarded him guardedly. "You only pointed it at me because I invaded your bubble. Captain Mandel was a completely different situation. Do you remember what you were thinking about that got you so riled up against him?"

He shook his head. "I don't remember any of it." His brow creased in the effort. "I had thought earlier about how familiar he looked. It stuck me that he was important somehow, but I couldn't figure out why. I can't—there was something really important that I can't—my head, oh Lord, it hurts."

The lass rushed to his side as he sagged, and helped him to lie down. "Take it easy, take it easy. Teacher said you need lots of rest to refresh your mind."

"Sorry," he panted in a grunt.

"Don't be. It's okay."

"I can't. I can't remember."

"It's fine," she soothed. "It probably doesn't matter anyway." She paused, running a thumb along his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch with a soft sigh, drawing what benefit he could from the motherly touch. "Is there anything I can do for you? Can I get you something?"

"Will you..." Two spots of pink appeared on his pale cheeks. But he dismissed his embarrassment almost immediately, cracking his eyes open against the migraine to meet her gaze again. "Will you sing to me?"

"A sad song? Or perhaps something lively?"

"A lullaby, if you know any. And if not, something slow."

"Surely." She paused to think, scraping her memory for any good songs. Upon finding her quarry, she cleared her throat softly, sitting on the mattress beside him and stroking his hair.

"_Lay down  
>Your sweet and weary head.<br>Night is falling  
>You have come to journey's end.<em>

_Sleep now  
>And dream–of the ones who came before.<br>They are calling  
>From across a distant shore.<em>

_Why do you weep?  
>What are these tears upon your face?<br>Soon you will see  
>All of your fears will pass away.<em>

_Safe in my arms  
>You're only sleeping.<em>

_What can you see  
>Oh the horizon?<br>Why do the white gulls call?_

_Across the sea  
>A pale moon rises.<br>The ships have come  
>To carry you home.<em>

_And all will turn to silver glass  
>A light on the waterAll souls pass."<em>

About here, Groves walked in to apologize, fist raised to knock, and upon hearing she was singing, decided this time not to interrupt, but rather to listen, silently opening the door so he could see her.

"_Hope fades  
>Into the world of night<br>Through shadows falling  
>Out of memory and time.<em>

_Don't say  
>We have come now to the end.<br>White shores are calling  
>You and I will meet again.<em>

_And you'll be here in my arms  
>Just sleeping.<em>

_What can you see  
>On the horizon?<br>Why do the white gulls call?_

_Across the sea  
>A pale moon rises.<br>The ships have come  
>To carry you home.<em>

_And all will turn to silver glass  
>A light on the water<br>Grey ships pass,  
>Into the West."<em>

With a small smile, she rested her hand affectionately on the slumbering man's forehead, taking comfort in the peacefulness in his face as he slept. She turned and got up, then froze upon seeing Groves standing there, all cheer fleeing her face. "That was, uh, quite lovely, Miss Norrington."

She stared at him like a deer in the headlights, not sure whether he had been spying or had simply been caught in happenstance. "Er—thanks." They stared at one another dumbly for a few moments more. "So did you want something?" she finally demanded softly, "Or did you just come back to call me a whore again?" Ah, so blunt...

"I'm sorry about that, Miss Norrington, I truly am. It's just that your, er, argumentative and contrary nature is frustrating and..." He glanced over his shoulder, then closed the door. "...and what you were saying—about me not caring—it wasn't true. I—I _do_ care. I honestly do. I want to be there for him, and I don't want to see him hurt nor see our friendship die, but I'm not in a position to argue his case. I can't push the limits or speak my mind to a superior. Would I could. I'm already on a tight leash as it is. Serving penance, and never a promotion in sight because of the things I have done."

"It is a mere choice," the lass replied shortly. "You're just afraid of losing your job."

"I am not afraid of losing my job, Miss Norrington, although I do like it rather a lot, but my life. I see that look. You never fully understood what consequences would befall me should I stop denying what is true, did you? You see, he has been branded a pirate, renegade, and deserter in the Navy. They know I was his friend, and so they are watching me like vultures to see if I shall turn renegade also. And doing what he has done is considered high treason, and is indeed punishable by death. Were I to extend my hand to him, to help him, Captain Mandel would have me strung up from the nearest yardarm before said metaphorical hands could touch. And I do fear death, Miss, really I do."

She regarded him for a long time, but did not comment. "I suppose I should not be so hard on you, then. I'm sorry. And about me being contrary? Ain't gonna change." And she had to laugh at the expression on his face. Relief flooded the two of them at the lighter mood of the room.

"So where did you disappear to? I've had crew searching high and low for you, and you were gone without a trace."

"Well they must not have checked that little deck around the bowsprit. Not the forecastle, or anything—in front of that," a simple, quick coverup.

Groves smiled. "The beakhead."

"Beg pardon?"

"That curved structure underneath the bowsprit; it's called a beak. The decking on top is called the beakhead, and you know, I don't think anyone looked there after all."

"Told ya. So do all ships have beaks?"

"No, usually ships of the line like this one, galleons, or fluyts like the _Flying Dutchman_." She blinked at the last, wondering why Groves would know anything about _that_. "You seem to like ships rather a lot."

"Don't _you?_ I mean, aside from the occasional seasickness or storm or whatever, ships are beautiful, and ships are freedom. Can you blame me?"

"Concepts which sound very similar to Sparrow's way of thinking."

"He puts it very poetically. Besides, he's the one who introduced me to ships in the first place. Have you ever been aboard the _Pearl?_ You haven't seen real beauty until you have...although I imagine the _Dauntless_ came rather close. Shame to lose her."

"That shame lies on the shoulders of that man," Groves pointed at James, "and I'm certain he hasn't yet forgiven himself for that mistake. You say you've sailed with Sparrow; does that mean you've pirated with him?"

"No. The whole reason he dropped me off in Port Royal in the first place was to keep me safe while he and his men went off to a raid or something. I don't think I'd like to do that sort of thing anyway. Just like I'd never want to be in the Navy. People glorify it and think of all of you as these big heroes and whatever, and it's really not all they crack it up to be. It's gory, it's unpleasant, most of you 'heroes' are really cowards, no offense, and a lot of the time, your captains or officers or whatever end up being corrupt and cruel and use their power to manipulate everyone and everything around them to their personal advantage."

"You are aware that I'm obliged to tell you Captain Mandel is a good, respectable man who puts his duty before himself?"

"I'm aware. And _you_ are surely aware that, while I would very much like to continue our conversation, you really must be leaving lest you stay in my room for a suspicious amount of time in the presence of a wanted convict and former friend?"

Theodore blinked. "Very well. Shall I see you at supper?"

She shook her head. "Sorry. I'll be taking my food in here with James."

"Of course. I'll be sure and let the cook know. Good day." He bowed and turned toward the door.

"Good day. And Theodore," he looked back, "you're a pretty okay guy." And she closed the door after him, not missing the smile.

* * *

><p>:D<p> 


	5. Sheep

**Chapter Five: Sheep**

"Lieutenant," Captain Mandel addressed Groves in a ponderous air, "you told me earlier that the girl was arrested with Sparrow. How is it that they both escaped conviction?"

"Sparrow turned into a horse and galloped right out of the gaol with the girl astride—"

"He turned into a horse, Leftenant? Do not spin a yarn."

"I've seen him do it, sir. He's got some curse or other on him now."

"And just how did they get out of their cells? I am certain that this mere change of shape did not unlock their doors."

"They were in the same cell, actually, sir. The mob was coming for the girl, and that was when they made their escape. But the crowd got the girl anyway whilst Sparrow ran off unnoticed."

"A mob was after the girl, you say? What sort of mob?"

"A pair of idiots got it into their heads that she was a witch, sir, and she would have been burned alive if Sparrow and Norrington hadn't rescued her, and revealed her to be Norrington's niece."

"They thought she was a witch, eh? And she's related to Norrington?"

"Yes sir, but clearly the charges were false—."

"Tell me everything you know about her."

—

James grunted and opened his eyes. "Who was that? It sounded like Groves."

Amy looked up from her book to see him struggling into a sitting position. "He was here, but that was over an hour ago."

"Oh."

"How's your head?"

"I suppose it's all right so long as I don't try to think too hard."

"So I guess that means you slept well?"

"I dreamed," he confessed. "It was about my mother. She was tied at the stake and it was on fire–and she screamed. I heard her screaming, Amy." The lass was at his side instantly, hoping to calm him. "And...Mandel was there. Just watching her die. He was smiling, I think." Realization hit him so hard he was thrown against the bedpost, and forced to cling to it to keep himself from falling over. "I remember—why he looks familiar, Amy. He's the one who convicted Hannah and—issued her death sentence." Her hand dropped from his arm as she stared in shock.

Shock quickly became anger. "I knew there was something I didn't like about that maggot!" she fumed, accent becoming more British with the emotion. "Besides that, he whipped you—"

"Amy, listen to me—."

"I'll throttle him! Keelhaul him! Point a firing squad at him!"

"Amy, _please—_."

"Strap a cannon to his boots and throw him overboard—see how he likes _that_!"

"Amy!" She finally broke off from her tangent to look at him. "He'll suspicion you too. He's bound to." He suddenly lowered his voice, and she sensed his wariness of the wrong ears. "And this time he has a real witch."

"Yeah, one who's gonna kick his sorry little arse!"

"You mustn't. Avoid him as best you can. And whatever you do, _do not use your magic_, Amy, I beg of you."

"And if he tries me anyway?" she hissed. "What then?"

James inhaled deeply. "Let us pray it never comes to that."

—

"I have a plan—I'm going to instigate a mutiny," Amy whispered that night as they lay face to face on the bunk.

"If he catches you trying, he'll hang you as soon as burn you."

"But he won't know I'm trying."

"You're not going to use magic. You can't."

"I won't have to, if things work out right. See, I'm not going to tell them to mutiny or anything like that. They'll do it on their own."

James rolled his eyes at her confidence. "And how exactly do you plan to accomplish this?"

"I'll make them like me. I'll be their friend. They'll defend me."

He pursed his lips. "You disregard my concern. Is what I say just the rantings of a madman to you now?"

"I think you're being a little overly paranoid, yeah."

He glared sideways at the ceiling. "Maybe I am."

"That doesn't mean I'm not going to be careful and take precautions. You say he's dangerous, and I believe you. But if worse comes to worst, I am going to magic us both straight out of here, regardless."

"But Amy—."

"No buts. I don't know how long the voyage is, and our time is running out. Not to mention the official premier," the last word she said in three syllables, "on the red carpet, which happens Lord knows how long before it hits public theatres..."

"Then as soon as we get out of this, you must find out."

"And then there's the possibility of earlier releases in other countries..."

"Wot?" James stiffened behind her.

"Yeah. And I really don't know how much time _that_'ll give us. Then again..."

"Yes? If there is any hope..."

"Well, there's a part of me that thinks it wouldn't effect us. I mean, I think there might be separate Realms from this one for each foreign language adaptation of the film. All the lines and meanings would be interpreted differently, and the people who would be speaking the lines in said other languages will say them in different tones and such, which subtly changes the character from the original."

"Different languages, different characters, different Realms," Norrington murmured thoughtfully. "Let us hope that it the case."

"I'm feeling more and more certain of the notion, and I'ma ask Tia Dalma about it some time tomorrow."

"By disappearing again? They noticed your absence before. They'll notice it this time too, and suspicions will rise."

"No, James; in my mind. I'll contact her like I used to. Psh. You didn't really think I'd be _that_ stupid, did you?" He shrugged, before softly cursing the soreness that hampered all movement. She carefully climbed out of the bunk so as not to disturb him, and helped him into a more comfortable position. "Get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning." She petted his hair once in that soothing motherly manner she always seemed to have, rose and blew out the candle. She waited a moment, listening to the creak of the timbers and the footfalls of sailors topside, and the lapping of waves against the hill as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, before navigating her way into her hammock and lulling herself to sleep with petty daydreams about her own little world—a world which she hadn't thought of since that once in the library in the Governor's house, what seemed like ages ago.

—

Morning came in due time. Someone shouted an order right at the section of bulwarks over their open window. Amy startled awake and promptly rolled out of her hammock. "Whoa!" _Thump!_ "Ow! Dammit." Lucky for her, James was still asleep.

"I don't think you did that right." Er...maybe not. Her head shot up to see him, pushing himself up a little on one elbow, watching her, green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"You kidding? Been refining that for months. I _stuck_ that landing!" He laughed softly and she knew he would have liked to laugh harder. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been keelhauled and nobody's bothered to careen the hull."

"Ouch."

"I'll get over it." He struggled to sit up, and accomplished the task with a grunt. "So how did you sleep?"

"Like driftwood floating at sea."

He rolled his eyes. "Why must you always say things like that?" It was corny. And squishy. Like creamed corn.

"What?" She pretended to pout. "I thought it was rather poetic." James only snorted. The lass got up and stretched, catlike, as she always did. Then she tipped her head to one side, and several loud cracks ensued.

"Lord! Every time you do that it sounds like you've broken your neck!"

"Well my doctor says its fine," she replied, cracking her neck the other direction, and smiling evilly when he winced. "It's just air between the bones, and as long as it doesn't hurt, it's not deleterious."

"Big word for someone your size."

"Watch it!" He laughed—which quickly became a groan when she twisted around and cracked her back. "That feels sooo good..." And she did it the other way. James grimaced again, although part of him longed to stretch like that, being chained to a bed and whatnot. "Your back?"

"Still stings a bit. Feels rather tight."

"I'd give you a massage if I wasn't so afraid of hurting you."

"Thanks, pet. The thought at least is comforting." She gave him a sympathetic smile as she stretched an arm across her chest. And so to the morning exercises. Have to stay fit. Push-ups were first. And not those wimpy girly ones either.

James' eyes followed her up and down, observing the mechanics of the muscles and tendons in her arms as she moved, as he was wont to do, and taking some comfort in watching her do the very exercises he had done each morning in his cabin on the _Dauntless_. "Keep your back straight; don't let it sag like that," he advised. "It's a workout for your back as much as it is for your arms."

She paused to look up at him. "Never knew that. Danke." And so resumed.

By perhaps her twentieth, where she was panting with effort, James said, "Go down and hold the position."

"Wahh," she whined, but did it all the same, holding herself with her nose to the ground and elbows sticking out. After a few seconds, her arms began to shake, but she forced herself to maintain the position, taking deep breaths to get air to the muscles.

"And up. Hold."

"I think I've held long enough."

"Five more seconds...All right."

With a sigh and a groan, the lass rolled onto her back. A moment's rest, and then she launched into the marching band crunches. "And don't you dare give me any pointers about these. I'm doing just fine as it is."

"Shutting up."

She had to keep her muscles toned so her body could conduct and focus her magic. If she was unfit, her magic would not behave—however, it also hurt to be over-fit. As with a magnifying glass and the sun's rays, over-focusing her magic would be too intense to be safe, and she would not be able to control the effects, spelling destruction at all angles. This was James' original train of thought before his mind moved on to other things. "You know," he began as the lass stretched the cramps out of her abs, "one would see this situation as bleak; but if you think about it, now is a perfect chance to work on healing skills."

Ames' eyes flashed apprehensively to the door. "Don't you think I've thought about it? What if I hurt you? Every time I think about the possibility of healing you, all I can see in my mind is an image of you screaming in agony. I can't handle that." She broke off to calm the surge of emotions. "Besides, didn't you tell me just last night not to use my 'abilities'?" James blinked. "Anyways, being a nurse means being nice. I like sarcasm _waaay_ too much to give it up."

He had to smile at that. "I didn't mean right now. I meant after the threat is gone, when we're far away from this place. It's a good skill to have, and as your unofficial guardian, I feel that it is necessary for you to learn it."

"Stop sounding like my mother."

"Stop stealing my line." They fell to a playful bickering to pass the time. The exchange would have lasted longer had there not been a knock at the door. The lass opened it to reveal a portly fellow in an apron, whom she recognized to be the cook, holding a tray with their meal on it. Funny. She had expected a ship's boy.

"Food's 'ere," he announced. "Where d'yeh want it?"

"Right there on the bed. Thanks so much."

"'S no trouble, Missy. Anybody'd understand a woman not wantin' ter eat in the company of a rowdy buncha sailors."

"Is that so? I thought the Cap'm was spreadin' it around that I'm only here for lewd and lascivious reasons."

"Cap'n 'as his thoughts, crew 'as theirs."

"A comforting notion. Well, thank you again, and might I add that yesterday's chowder was superb."

"Thankee, Mum. Bring down th' tray when yer done with it."

"Will do. Good day." She closed the door behind him, before swinging around to face James. "Ah, sweet hope!" For now they knew that the crew did not act as a herd of cows or sheep to follow their captain, but followed their own wills instead. "Are you strong enough to feed yourself?" she asked him, tapping the bolt that held his shackles. It fell out almost as if it had been loose the whole time.

He attempted to move his arms. "I've broken one of my wrists."

"The doctor hasn't looked you over yet?"

"All he took care of was my back. I am of the mind that an emergency came up that was even more pressing than I. I'll be sure and mention it to him when he comes to check on me."

"Can you use your other hand?"

With some effort and a lot of pain, he managed to pick up a slice of mango and take a bite. "It's still fresh," he observed. "They can't have been at sea for long."

"Does that mean the voyage is going to take longer than we expected?"

"It might. That's why you must remember to find out our heading today."

"Right. Right after I talk to Tia Dalma about the foreign films."

"Busy day."

"You're telling me. You gonna eat that?"

"Do you know what it is?"

"Salt pork?"

James shook his head grimly. "Horse." The lass dropped her fork, a piece of the meat with it. "That's right, just like Jack. It's a rather common victual on Naval expeditions. I was rather accustomed to it, too, personally, although since a certain recent time, I have avoided it at all costs."

"But why can't they just have beef or pork or whatever?"

"Horse is cheaper around here, and easier to come by. We do have mutton relatively often, however. And millers."

"Millers?"

"Whatever rats we catch aboard the ship." Ames grimaced. "They're quite good, actually, once you get past the face and general appearance." He licked his lips in thoughtful memory.

"Baleehh."

"And this coming from the girl who's eaten mice."

"Hey, I was a cat. It was normal, then."

"As you always say to me, 'Don't knock it 'til you try it.' Catch a few and give them to the cook. I'm sure he'd whip them right up for you."

"Uh—no. Anywaffles, do you think cookie might have put any horse in that chowder of his?"

"Possibly, but rather unlikely," he said slowly. "What you described sounded like a purely seafood soup. All the same, I'd let the cook know that you're, ah, allergic to horse, shall we say."

"Aye." She popped just one more bite into her mouth. "I won't really be hungry for a while yet. I'm gonna go climb the three and work up an appetite."

"Don't overexert yourself, pet."

"Now don't you worry about me. I'nt gonna do anything stupid, all right? And don't you either. Make sure to put the bolt back in if you hear footsteps." And she was out the door. Up on deck there was a light fog, which her minimal experience knew would burn off later into the morning. She sucked in the fresh morning air and looked about the ship. They were headed in a northeasterly direction. The watch on deck were idle, having little to do now that they were on the starboard tack. There were only a few up in the rigging, most of which were keeping watch for any ships that might sneak up on them in the fog.

She scurried up the steps to the forecastle, jumped into the ratlines and sped up the foremast. Her race had begun, as she was timing herself and climbing as quickly as she could. She set herself into the mechanical movement of climbing; and in almost no time at all, had reached the top and began her descent down the other side. The ship being as big as it was, the mast had been equally huge, and already her arms were burning. Back on deck. She sprinted to the mainmast, which was substantially taller. She didn't hesitate to jump right up and start climbing again.

"Look at her, Lieutenant," Captain Mandel said to his first mate as they watched the girl from the poop-deck. "Jumping around like a possessed ape, and dark as a mulatto."

"Despicable, sir," the mate, who shall be known as a Mr Joshua Richards, rightly predicted where his master was going.

"Always had a rule: no trollops aboard. Especially none like this one." Amy was labouring already, barely halfway up the mast.

"We'll get rid of her the first chance we get, sir, to be sure. As soon as we see land."

Mandel's hand went to the smooth, clean-shaven chin in thought. "Or sooner," he murmured, almost to himself, and poor Richards did not know how to interpret this, much less respond to it.

Amy, meanwhile, was oblivious to the scrutiny being applied to her—or rather, she sensed it, but assumed it was a couple of ordinary, maybe able seamen. Panting heavily now, and finally reaching the top of the mainmast, she found herself too exhausted to go on. Pity. She'd wanted to finish her exercise with a climb over the smaller, aft-most mizzenmast, and out and back on the bowsprit. Taking deep breaths and resisting the urge to flop over and go straight to sleep, she turned and slowly climbed back to the deck, where she leaned against the main to examine her palms and the soles of her feet.

"Are you all right, Miss Norrington?" Mandel, Richards, and the oblivious Amy looked up to see Groves.

"Ah. Why do you only feel the blisters and splinters _after_ you stop?"

Groves chuckled. "I suppose you don't do this often?"

"Its only the second or third time I've tried. And I _still_ haven't gotten all the way through," she gestured at the mizzen. "So do splinters penetrate callouses?" she asked as she pried the bits of wood from her feet, "or should I rather be wearing boots? And I want the practical answer, not the proper one."

Theodore hid a smile. "Honestly? All right, well..." He thought a moment. "The sailors who cannot afford shoes do not complain of splinters in their feet. I don't know if it is because they have protective callous, or if they're simply used to it, but they do not complain."

"Wonderful!" She rose and met his gaze. "I need to talk to you. Will you walk with me?"

"Of course, Miss Norrington." He escorted her through the ship, away from unwelcome company. They headed toward the cabin in the sickbay—she still needed to fetch back the breakfast tray.

"I've been meaning to ask you," she began as they strolled down the hallway, "Where exactly are we going?"

"We're headed back to Port Royal, where your uncle will stand trial for deserting the Navy and allowing Sparrow to escape. Speaking of escapes," and here he pulled her into a small alcove hidden in shadow, and whispered, "I hope you have a plan of getting out of here. Your life is in danger too, just for being in his company."

"It's in danger for more than that, as far as I know."

Groves' brows came together in alarm. "What do you mean?"

"Almonds, tonsils, and bullets," she replied dismissively before stepping back into the hallway, arms folded neatly behind her back. "How long has he got? James, I mean."

"Nigh of a fortnight." She cracked her neck at this, to avoid betraying just how nervous this had made her: two weeks was much too long. They would either have to escape as soon as possible, or magic their way out. "I don't know what to do, to be honest. It's not just you that I'm worried about," and she knew his 'you' was meant to be plural. "The townsfolk will be devastated. I mean, after the first time, what with everything else that went wrong in the world—."

"The first time?" she stepped in front of him, frowning into his gaze. "What first time?"

"So he hasn't told you yet," Groves murmured with complete understanding.

"Told me _what_?" she demanded.

"It's not my place to say. And don't try to sway me. It's the only promise I can make him, not to reveal something that he should be the one to tell you."

Ames blinked. "Okay. I'll just have to interrogate him some other time then."

A moment of silence passed. "Was there anything else, Miss Norrington?"

"Huh?–er, yeah. I need you to talk to the doctor for me, if you please."

"About Norrington?"

"Yes. I need ol' Doc to give him a thorough once-over. As far as I know, he's only taken care of James's back, yet there's a broken arm and sev'ral torn muscles and such that need tending."

"He never even checked?" Groves seemed surprised. "I'll take care of that immediately."

"Thanks, Theo." He made a surprised sound at the informality. "I'm sorry, do you prefer Teddy instead? Teddy Groves." She laughed. "Cutsie. No, what you need is a new name. Like..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Hmm, you are a tough one. Arlene? No no, that doesn't fit you at all. Nancy? Nahh.. I'd give you Debbie if that weren't already Jack."

"But those are all women's names," Groves sputtered, earning and odd look from a passing sailor.

"I've got it!" There was shouting topside, and the _Oblivion_ gave a lurch as it put about on the larboard tack. "Rebecca. Rebecca fits you perfectly."

"It does?" He was almost too bewildered to form a proper sentence.

"Oh yes. I can't wait to see Ellie's face when he finds out."

"Excuse me, 'he?' Who's Ellie, now?"

"The one you're not allowed to talk to."

Groves suddenly laughed. "Eleanore—you named him Eleanore! And just how awkward was he when you sprang that upon him?"

"He took to it right away, actually—I mean, aside from giving me that look the first few times I called him that. But he'd already started to get to know me by then."

"Which look?" The lass pushed her brows together, narrowed her eyes in a half-sideward-glare, set her mouth in a grim line, and worked a muscle in her jaw. Groves laughed again. "That's the one. Very good impression. You have him down pat."

The scowl broke into a grin. "I've been around him enough, I suppose."

Groves' own smile faded as they walked on. The girl had known the man for all of about a year, and already she seemed to know him as well as Theodore did—only for him, it had taken nigh on a decade to break through the barriers and armour the man had built up around himself. For the first time, he felt a pang of jealousy that this girl would get closer to James than he as a best friend ever could. He had to remind himself that it was natural anyway, despite current circumstances, because the two were related. It was hard to think of them being related, though. He had always imagined Norrington's relatives to be proper and well on in society, and so on and such forth; yet here was this headstrong girl who wore men's clothing and enjoyed men's work, and was probably poorer than a dime.

"Miss Norrington," he began at length.

"That's not my name, you know."

"Yes, but it seems to fit you."

"Great, because I was just about to tell you to feel free to call me that, regardless."

Groves smiled. "Miss Norrington, I do not recall James ever mentioning any siblings. How then is he your uncle? He said Sparrow was an adopted brother—are you one of his?"

She shot him a shocked look. "Jack has kids?"

"Well I imagine that he must, womanizer as he is," he replied thoughtfully.

"Why would I call Jack an uncle also, if I were his daughter?" she reminded him slowly.

"Forgive me. I was forgetting. You look like him, you know."

"Who, Jack? Yeah, so I've been told." Numerous times, actually; whenever she dressed up in her cap'n Jack costume, complete with fake facial hair.

"But then, if not through Jack, how are you related?"

She gave him a pained look—an imitation of his own when asked about the contents of the chowder. "It's complicated. I don't think _I_ even really know how it works. But we are blood, and that's the important part. It's just simpler to call each other uncle/niece. Although, it feels like everything's changed since we met."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it started out as an uncle-niece thing, then it got more like a father-daughter kind of thing, and now it's like a brother-sister kind of thing, you know?—only really close, like best friends." When she saw the expression on his face, she snapped in frustration. "Darnit. I know what you're thinking —it's not like that, make no doubt. We're related, you'll remember. We're just really close."

"Understood. But, if you don't mind my asking all these questions..."

"Shoot."

He paused thoughtfully. "How did you come to be in his care? I mean, what of your parents?"

"Oh, they're—not on this earth," she lied truthfully.

He started and turned his head sharply to meet her gaze, eyes searching hers for any offense. "I'm so sorry. Please, forgive me. It wasn't my place to ask—."

"It's okay," she interrupted him with an entirely unmoved smile. "It's not like it's a secret or anything."

"You must miss them terribly."

"It's been a while since I last sawr them," she admitted with a sigh; all that time in Narnia had kept her from visiting home thus far, and it felt like over a month. "But that's okay. I'll see them again some day." Some days away, that is. This seemed to settle Groves' mounting mixture of pity and respect for her. "Any more questions?"

"No. I'm afraid that's all for now. And a good thing, too, because we're here." He turned toward the surgeon's door.

"I'll go check on James, then. And Becky," he met her gaze, "Thanks."

"No worries, Miss." And, smiling, he went into the cabin.

* * *

><p>:D<p> 


	6. Reverie

**Chapter Six: Gambling with Memories**

"So y'see, miss, now you've rolled the ship, captain, and crew—the six, the five, and the four—you roll the other two dice, the cargo, and try to get the highest you can."

"Okay. Here goes." Ames shook her dice and let them fly. A four and a six. "Ten."

"Why miss," the same boy said, "you've just won."

"Have I?" The other boys nodded their heads and chorused congratulations. "Jolly good. Let's have another go and see if I've got the hang of it yet." When the surgeon had arrived at their cabin, Amy had opted to duck out and go about the ship instead. In a corridor somewhere near the galley, she had found a group of seven or eight ship's boys huddled around a dice game. After a few awkward moments, they recognized her as the heroine who had stood up to an officer without getting beaten, and she was invited to play. Of course, she had never heard of 'ship-captain-crew' before, and so had needed to be taught. That was where Nathaniel had helped her. He was about her age, perhaps a little older, and seemed a kind and honest young man—one of the few, among the savage snotties known as midshipmen. Most of the other boys were powder monkeys and cabin boys, aged eleven or twelve, and the rest in between.

"Would you care to go first, Miss?"

She blinked. "Ehem. Miss? Rather formal, don't you think? All right, yes, I'll go first. You can do me the pleasure of telling me what I'm doing wrong." As chance had it, she won this round also.

"Well done, Miss Norrington," a young Ethan congratulated her.

"Would you like to try with stakes, mum?"

"And me so new to the game?" she replied. "I fear I would be taken advantage of by you wicked fiends."

"Those're just stories, mum," another young'un cried. "Some of us were poor and desperate sods afore we got here, but we don't take advantage of ladyfolk like you."

Amy turned a light shade of pink. The boy's companion whacked him over the head, "Twit!" for his terrible choice of words.

"What he means is, we're not wicked once you know us," Nathaniel amended, "and we don't take advantage of our friends or those we like." Aha. So she'd already won these boys over at least—although a handful of ship's boys and a couple of the more junior midshipmen were unlikely to sway the iron figure to her favour should it come to the stake, let alone even consider mutiny on their own.

She smiled and laughed. "Even so, I have nothing to wager."

"All's the better," came a stern voice, "because gambling is illegal aboard a Royal Navy ship." The blue-coated figure stepped out of the shadows.

"Oh—Lieutenant Groves, you scared me," she flustered.

"Good. Maybe that will teach you a lesson. I've been sent to fetch you. Come along."

She rose. "Sorry, mates. I guess we'll save this for another time, hey? Thanks for havin' me. I'm off." And with a bow, she turned and trotted after Groves.

"You're lucky it was me," the officer told her without turning or slowing.

"Sir?"

"Anyone else would have reported you for gambling, and you would have been punished. The boys too."

"But we weren't gambling!" she exclaimed—and her accent suddenly became very British, as it did whenever she got excited or angry. "Just talking about it."

"Richards and Mandel wouldn't have seen it that way."

"Richards, eh?"

"He is a respectable man, have no doubt, but he trusts his superiors' judgement above his own."

The lass made a scoffing noise. "Lotsa people like that these days. I could name a few right off the bat," she added, fixing his back with an accusing glare.

He turned his head to meet the look and seemed about to argue, or perhaps call her out for insulting an officer, but what came out of his mouth was something completely different. "Right off the bat, did you say?"

Oops. Baseball wasn't around yet, apparently. Although there was cricket... "It's a figure of speech in the colonies." Yeah, let's go with that. "Anyway, where did you say we were going?"

"I didn't. We are paying a visit to a man very much like a tailor."

"A tailor? What do we need with a tailor?"

"Besides that hole in the rump of your trousers?" With widening eyes, the girl spun around in circles trying to see. No hole. She turned back to him with a scowl, but he only laughed. "The Captain sends his compliments, and requests that you join him for supper tomorrow evening. You're going to need a dress."

"Are you kidding me?" A skirt was the last thing she wanted right now! She shut up when he pursed his lips, however. "Okay, fine, but if it involves a corset, many, many shins will be kicked!"

Groves laughed again—her humour seemed to work very well with him. "I'll tell him to keep that in mind."

"Tell him to keep it simple, too." They emerged on deck, and Amy's breath was immediately drawn away. This was the first time she had been topside when the _Oblivion_ was in full sail, and the effect was impressive; clouds upon clouds of billowing canvas, stretching up over two hundred feet, as though reaching for the sky. In fact, from this particular spot, she could not even see the sky for the sea of sails.

"Well are you going to go on gawking all day?" Groves asked stiffly, though not without humour.

"Yes," came the expectedly unexpected reply. "But I can walk and gawk." As it were, they had not gone more than twenty paces when something else excited her fancy. It was a big boat with a mast and everything, rigged to about a dozen or so pulleys over the bulwarks on the starboard side. It had a twin to port. "What are those?"

"Those are our cutters, as well as our life boats. Forty-three foot on deck, each of them."

"What's a cutter?"

Groves blinked. For all her knowledge of ships, she seemed to know very little. "A cutter serves multiple purposes. Sometimes it is sent out as a messenger ship to another ship, sometimes as a scout, and sometimes it goes out on its own, usually to take on the less formidable pirate sloops and such, in order to save inconsequential damage to the ship. Because ours are so big, they also serve as tenders. They're rigged now because we'll be sending them out later today to practice manoeuvres."

"That makes sense; although to the poetical eye, it hardly seems fair to the little-ship, to have to spend her life aboard another ship, never frolicking through the waves except to do grunt work—and when she finally gets to do something significant it is only because she is less valuable to her masters than her vessel berth. If you're poetical, that is."

"And I am to suppose that you are?"

"Only right now. How many does it take to handle her?"

"When one sets out after pirates, usually a dozen. We can squeeze forty or fifty for very short trips or emergencies. Just to sail her? Well, if the helmsman were to double as cook, I would say three, probably four men." The lass's eyes gleamed. "Don't get any ideas. She hasn't got any provisions on board, except gunpowder, and it takes an entire watch to lower and launch her."

"My boy, ideas are the stuffs on which masterpieces are built. Has she got a name?"

"Probably, though doubtless it would sound insignificant."

"You mean you don't know it?"

"Well, I haven't had the chance to sail her yet." Her expression must have asked her question for her, for he added, "It is normal for the master's mates to sail them. The only time a Lieutenant might is if either the manoeuvres are complicated and sensitive, or if we've run out of master's mates and senior midshipmen. Besides that, everyone only ever refers to them as 'the cutters,' so their names are not well known among the crew."

"But still, not to know the name of the ship you could possibly one day captain?"

"Boat." Well it was only forty-three feet... "Well, what say we hurry on to the sail maker's, and on our way back we investigate, hmm?"

"I'm liking the sound of that." And thus they hastened to their destination.

As it was, the sail-maker had very little experience in dress-making, but had experience enough to figure everything out. However, since he had very rarely been in view of women's undergarments, Amy was cheated of drawers and underpetticoats, and thus had to miss out on undressing for the seamster (Oh thank heavens!)

After taking measurements, Bayler, as he was called, sketched out possible dress designs, and having surveyed his supply of cloth, decided on the one that would work. It consisted of a simple, modest white tunic, undermost, and a simple, frilly white petticoat. The bodice was brown and split into a V down the middle; a chord of the same shade zigzagged across to keep it close. The outer skirt was made of a matching material, which dropped to mid-calf and swirled about in a most delightful manner whenever she turned. About her waist would be a light blue sash, and a kerchief of the same to hold her hair, for a finishing look and propriety's sake.

As pleased as she was with the dress—a rare occurrence in itself—she could not stop the dread from creeping up her spine, or from closing icy fingers around her heart at the idea of the pending encounter with the witch-hunter captain. In fact, as the sail-maker—as salty a tar as you could wish—was making the final adjustments, Amy fell into a reverie of what had happened the first time. This was the first time she had been able to remember it clearly—every other time, it had been blank or a vague blur. But now, in her mind's eye, she saw the pyre, saw the dancing flames, felt their heat, searing, burning! She tried to get away, but could not move. The smoke filled her lungs, choking her, blocking her breath. With a desperate gasp, she slumped to one side, and the world spun until it was the sail-maker's store once more. ("Wot? All I did wos hem the skirt!")

"Miss Norrington, are you all right?" She felt a vibration against her cheek as Theodore spoke, and realized she was in his arms, her head against his chest. "Miss Norrington? Amy?"

Blinking, she looked up into his concerned face, and tried to get up. He supported her until she was steady once again, worrying all the more as she held her head, which was beginning to clear. "I'm fine."

"What happened?"

"Just reliving a really, really bad memory." Except the memory had been worse than the event. That's because it had not been a memory.

* * *

><p>:D<p> 


	7. Demons

**Chapter Seven: Facing Demons**

"Let's say your first course is lobscouse. Which utensils do you use?"

"It's _what_ now?"

"It's like a mutton-vegetable stew."

"Well I imagine a fork, yeah? So this."

"Lucky guess. Onto a pudding. Which fork?"

"Which _fork_? All the puddings I've ever et were spoon-worthy."

"What sort of puddings have you been eating?"

"Like this."

"So, custard."

"No. It's pudding."

"No. It isn't. I'm British, and if there's one thing we Brits know, it's pudding."

"Hmph. Well, this one looks like the salad forks we have back home, so—"

"No."

"This one?"

"Save that one for later."

"Two-pronged?"

"For the meat."

"Then that only leaves this one."

"Precisely."

"But there are like four of them! And knives and spoons—argh, you people have too bloody much silverware!"

"I know you're used to one spoon, one knife, and usually one fork where you're from, and I must admit that while I was there it was a relief not to have to remember my etiquette, but here you must practice refinery, or else offend the captain who may wish you harm. Now, take this and settle it in your lap." A napkin. "Knees together like a lady now."

"But they don't like to go together! The horsey muscles are too big."

"Too bad. A woman around here doesn't ride like you do. Here, if you'll place one foot behind the other ankle, it will hold your legs together without the effort. That's better. Sit up straight, will you? And remember to take tiny bites, lest he address you whilst your mouth is full."

"Grahh. Stupid manners."

"Do not make light of this. Do one thing as you would in your own realm, and your only chance of convincing him you are a normal, ordinary, insignificant girl will be snuffed out, along with our hopes of escape—unless we were to leave now, and avoid this whole thing."

"No. You're not well enough. I had to help you into that chair just now, and if we're going to get out of here without magic, then you have to be able to hold your own."

"I suppose. What have you seen as far as a means of escape?"

"The cutter. She's forty-three feet long and it takes three to man her. She's hanging over the side because the crew's being drilled in her."

"But you and I are only two—one, since you refuse to allow me to do anything."

"I know. But if Jack and Will could commandeer and sail the _Interceptor_ all by their twosies, then a cutter should be no problem. It's the best chance we've got, and I just need a little while longer to figure it all out and smoothe out the details."

He regarded her for a while, jaw set. "Fine. But keep me in the loop, will you? Don't make any decisions without consulting me."

"I promise."

"Now, as to that knife of yours, you should hold it in your right hand instead of left. And it should not be gripped quite like that. Perhaps I should demonstrate." He reached for the cutlery, then paused, looking at the heavy bandaging around the broken arm. "Perhaps it would be best if we were to take this lesson to the interior of our imaginations."

"I'll bet. You tell me when you start to feel drained, now." And she connected her mind to his. She found herself sitting in a marvelous, roomy captain's cabin, a dinner table set out and ready. James was sitting at the head of the table, and upon seeing her, rose and bowed. He was uninjured, shaven, and back in his wig and uniform, although his hat had been removed for the occasion.

"_You will curtsey upon entry._" She did as bidden, as smooth and graceful as she could. But her attention was not on him, and he almost felt as though she were curtseying more to this unfamiliar ship which so enamoured her, rather than to him. "_This was my old cabin,_" he told her, "_Back on the _Dauntless."

"_So this is the_ Dauntless," she breathed. "_She's beautiful_."

"_Pet, all you've seen is her cabin."_

"_And it's all I need."_

He gave her time to admire the memory, but they really needed to get on with the lessons. "_Now, he will invite you to sit_." He beckoned to her. "_You will come to the chair and approach it from the left side. Supposing he will be civil toward you, he will pull your chair out just so, and—gather your skirts, now."_ She looked down to see she was wearing an elaborate Elizabeth Swann sort of dress—it was quite obvious who was the man's standard of what a lady should be. "_Now, as we are at sea, rather than on land, things may be a bit different than what you were expecting. I presume a pudding or stew to start, followed by a soup if it is the former, and probably mutton, beef, or pork for the main course. A sweeter pudding after, and you may have various fruits since they are so recently out of port. Between courses, there will be conversation and wine drinking. Be careful with that. Now, when you hold your wineglass, you must grasp it just so..._" The lesson seemed to continue for ages. There were so many things about deportment and etiquette to learn—and most of it was minute details. _"Sit up straight, I said. A slouch like that is more than uncouth, it reeks of insolence. If your dress is low cut, they'll think you're trying to give them a view. ... Keep your elbows off the table, now, yes that's it. ... Switch your fork to your other hand after cutting through the meat, and position it top-down as you put it into your mouth. ... Remember: scratch not, sing not to yourself, and speak not unless spoken to,_" James kept repeating.

While they were doing this, the cabin door opened and Theodore walked in. He found the two sitting across a makeshift table, James wearing his shirt once more. They were staring at one another with a frightening intensity, unmoving, hardly breathing. Suddenly noticing something even more important, after staring dumbly at them for a moment, he hastily shut the door behind him. Neither stirred. Bewildered, he chose not to approach and waited by the door for either of them to come out of their trance.

At last, James blinked and brought his good hand to rub at his eyes. "Forgive me," he breathed to the girl, who was also stirring. "I am growing tired."

"That's okay. I'm good for a rest anyway. I don't think I'll be able to remember all of this though," she confessed, the both of them still certain they were alone.

"You don't need to remember it all. From what you've told me, the captain already thinks you are low down in society, so he will be expecting blunders. I'm only teaching you all of this so that you make the right _kind_ of blunders," he added with meaning.

There was a soft 'Ehem,' and both their heads snapped up to see Groves, looking at them anxiously. "What are you doing out of your restraints?" James's face instantly went stony. "What if someone else had found you thus? They'd have you down in the brig at once. Miss Norrington, did I not entreat you to abstain any foolish mistakes?" James' shoulders relaxed; Theodore was only trying to help, it seemed.

"Doctor has found it in his power to allow me two hours a day to move around and rehabilitate within the confines of this cabin, or else under the strictest supervision. You doubtless noticed the marine stationed at the only point of escape?"

Theodore unexpectedly broke out in a grin. "That is wonderful news. Have you been above yet? I imagine being tied to that bed must have driven you absolutely mad." His face suddenly fell, and he added, "-er."

Unable to hold any anger toward this man who was so truly his greatest friend, James managed a smile. "I'm not mad, as it were, and once the Doctor figures that out, I'll be released to the brig, for sure. I quite prefer it in here, truth be told." Theodore didn't respond. Perhaps he thought his friend was in denial. "In answer to your quaere; no, I have not as yet ventured out. Upon attempting to stand, I found every muscle in my legs weak and unreliable. I've only made it as far as this chair because I had help." Groves' eyes flitted to Amy's. "Was there a reason you came?"

"To be honest, I just wanted to see how you are," he confessed quietly. "But don't let that marine overhear us. I told my superiors, et cetera, that the Miss had requested I come and answer further questions—speaking of which, have you any?"

"I have," James interjected. "How big a ship is this? She feels larger than any I have seen before."

"She is two hundred and twenty-two foot, from stem to stern."

"That's huge!" cried the lass. Sure, in her world, two hundred twenty feet would still be called a boat, as compared to some mere ferries, not to mention cruise ships and barges, and larger ships that would come around the turn of the nineteenth century. But for a wooden ship before the industrial revolution, she hadn't been expecting anything over two hundred feet.

"That is. I imagine she's reinforced against the troughs and swells?" Theodore nodded. "How many gun decks?"

"Technically four, although the highest is mainly used as a great dining hall. The guns up there are rather light carronades."

"What's her armament?"

"A hundred fifty guns. The broadside combined weight in metal is one thousand four hundred twenty-eight pounds, plus chasers and pop guns."

Amy's eyes widened. "So she's a first rate?" A deep concern was taking root. Ships like this one were half again as powerful as the great first-rates, which were only fledgelings in their evolution into powerful war machines. This ship was beyond its time, and that couldn't be good.

Theodore grinned. "Even greater. But, as it is, the _Oblivion_ and her sister ship are mere experiments. Do you believe there is talk of a whole squadron? Eight altogether."

James grew grim. "There go Jack's chances at sea."

Groves' eyebrows drew together in confusion. "I thought you had heard, James. As the rumour goes, Jack Sparrow is dead."

Norrington and the Miss smirked sidewardly at one another. "Many such rumours have floated around before. I did not believe them then, and after all this," he gestured at his back with his broken arm, "I certainly won't believe them now."

"I don't know, Norrington; this one seems different." It seemed strange for Groves to be calling James by just his last name, however it was necessary so that no man could accuse him of being familiar toward the prisoner. He had already let it slip once. "Almost like when we heard about it back when—."

"Yes, well he came back then," James reminded him abruptly, but smoothly, "and he'll come back this time. I have every faith."

Theodore chuckled. "Not long ago, your every faith would have been quite the opposite. How you've changed," he added affectionately.

"We all have. What's our speed?"

"A brisk seven knots."

"I have a question," Amy piped up. "It's about the captain."

"Go for it."

"Is he any sort of superstitious man?"

"Miss, he is a sailor." She looked at James for confirmation and received none. "However, he has been known to go a little overboard when he's hoping for better or worse than the current situation."

"Do you know if her believes in w—OW!" Her question cut off in a cry of pain as James stamped his heel on her toes with a furious I-can't-believe-you-nearly-did-that look. Even for all this friendliness, her nephew still could not trust Groves. "Excuse you," she went with feigned indignance, kicking his foot away and massaging her bruised toes on the seat of her chair. "I was going to say 'weather signs'."

Theodore looked from one to the other, bemused. "Er—he has a tendency to believe that foul weather is set on him to hamper his duty."

Dread stiffened the girl's back. If there was a storm while they were still aboard, would he blame her for it? James sensed her fears and agreed with them. "Thank you, Leftenant. That is all for now, as the Doctor will presently be returning to truss me up." Theodore bowed and left.

As soon as the door had closed, the two looked at one another in surprise. "We came upon that bit by complete accident," the lass breathed. "I'm sorry about letting that slip. I feel like we can trust him. But to think—such bad luck about unfavourable weather, and I only asked as a cover-up."

"Good luck to show us the bad. I meant to ask, how are you feeling?"

"Well, my foot's hurting pretty bad..."

James rolled his eyes. "Not that. You mentioned you nearly fainted at the sailmaker's this morning—perhaps you should stop skipping breakfast. Go and get something to eat, why don't you?"

"Yeah, maybe I should. You gonna be all right for a while?"

"With you checking in every ten minutes? How could anything go wrong without your knowing?"

"If you think that'll stop me worrying about you, you're wrong. With my luck, as soon as I stop fretting, trouble will come." She helped him back to the bed, where he nursed his arm. Both wrists had been bandaged; one broken and the other mildly sprained. The doctor would thus tie him to the bed by the ankles to avoid upsetting the injuries. "Okay, that's great." Some of his stiffness seemed to have gone. "Everything good? Nothing hurting more than it should?"

"I'm fine, Mother," he snapped in good humour, feigning indignation. "Now go eat."

"Okay, see you later." She slipped out, leaving him rolling his eyes after her. ("She's half my age and more a mum than half the mothers I've met," he was muttering.)

To the galley, then. She came upon the great cafeteria completely empty, aside from the tortoiseshell ship's cat, who upon noting her entrance, sprang up from her nap in the corner and came trotting over. Its little pink mouth opened in a questioning meow. "Well hello there. You here to keep me company?" The cat winked one yellow eye. At that moment, Amy's stomach grumbled and she remembered her mission. "Food." The cook was nowhere in sight; but there were fruits and biscuits and such in the pantry that she would be free to partake of. The narrow door opened with a creak, and she slipped inside, careful not to let any of the goats, chickens, and other livestock escape. "Oh! Sweet potato muffins!" she cried to the cat, which had followed her in. She hadn't used to talk to cats this way—not until she had been one, anyway. "Fresh, warm, and my absolute favourite. I should bring one back for James. He'd love one of these." And so, with a handful, she found a place to sit and nibble. All the while, the little cat, which for its small stature was by no means a kitten, was yamming away, sitting next to her seat. After a few minutes of being ignored, she finally leapt into the girl's lap and yowled her demands. "What do you want?" she cried.

"Food!" It was then that Amy figured out that this scrawny cat was not female.

She nearly fell off her seat. "Excuse me?"

"I've been meowing incessantly. I would have thought you'd get the message. I'm hungry."

She couldn't believe it. This cat—it was talking! She shook her head, wondering if she had accidentally slipped into its mind or language without realizing it. "Are you one of Jack's?" she asked amidst her confusion. Could this be the final manifestation?

The cat tipped his head to one side. "I haven't the faintest idea."

"No, no, you don't sound like him—but you do sound familiar."

"As do you—that is why I allowed myself to speak." Ah, so he really was talking. "Yes, I remember you now—you're the girl who was with Jack Sparrow. It's Amy, right? Yes, the one who bested me in that swordfight."

"When have I ever dueled a talking cat?" Was anyone else around? If she was caught with a talking cat, she was dead.

"Oh I wasn't a cat back then—I was the demon who turned him to a horse."

She nearly flung the cat off her lap in alarm. "You're the demon?" she asked in a tight voice, and suddenly that old scar on her shoulder began to ache.

"Was, miss. I _was_. Been trying to make things right again, see, and as punishment for serving the devil I've been banished to the life of a cat."

"Well," was all she could say.

"I know I done you some wrong, miss, back then, and I'm sorry for it. But I'm a changed man—cat," he flicked his ears, "and I'd like to be a friend, if you'll have it."

She stared at it, dumbstruck with indecision. Friends? With someone who'd nearly killed her? With the creature that had cursed Jack? Had he really been banished to a cat's life, or could he simply have taken on a cat's shape? Half-formed ideas and vague thoughts meandered through her mind, but she couldn't make herself focus on what her brain was telling her.

His ears sagged. "It's all right. I understand." He jumped down from her lap and stalked away.

"Wait." The word escaped unbidden. He looked back hopefully. She bit her lip. "No one on this ship knows you can talk, right?"

"That's right," he replied cautiously. "I doubt I'd still be alive if they did."

"So you could see and hear everything that goes on anywhere and not be suspect?"

"I suppose."

"Then maybe you might come in handy."

The small feline regarded her cautiously. "What for?"

"I think there may be someone aboard who wishes me harm. If you want to prove your worth, will you help us?"

"I'll do whatever I can, miss."

She allowed him a smile, and with furtive glances over her shoulder, produced a small fish about the length of her hand. She picked him up and set him on the table to eat it. "Well don't just stare at it—eat up!"

His tiny nostrils were working furiously. "How did you do that?"

"Do what? I had it in my pocket."

"Miss, I worked for the Devil. I think I know when something unnatural's about. Besides, who keeps a fish in their pocket?"

"Sorry, but until I know I can trust you I'm not telling you any of my secrets."

"Don't worry, love, I wouldn't tell a soul," the cat promised with all sincerity.

She sighed. "But I don't know that." The cat looked like he accepted this. "I'd better be getting back. C'mon, demon, grab your fish and come meet James over these heavenly sweet-potato muffins."

She nearly dropped these treasures upon entering the cabin, she had such a fright. The Doctor was sitting in a chair pulled up to the bed, where James was sitting, tied to the mattress by his ankles. He was holding his arm over a wide bowl. Blood was streaming into it from an incision in the crook of his elbow. "What are you doing?" she cried in a panic.

James looked up, startled. "Just being bled is all."

"I suppose we shall have to stop shy of your ten," the surgeon told him, dabbing at the wound and placing a bandage over it.

"Is that for the best?"

"It is best for the miss."

"I understand. Thank you." The doctor only gave him a pitying look as he closed the door.

"What was that all about?" Amy demanded. "How much did he take?"

"Less than ten ounces. Calm down, it isn't that much."

"Isn't that much? Isn't that _much?_ What's gotten into you, giving blood away like there's a drive going on?"

"It is supposed to clear the mind—good for a madman, I presume—and speed the recovery of my arm."

"I'll tell you right now, bleeding has no health benefits whatsoever."

"I've been bled before and personally felt said nonexistent benefits myself."

"Well, nobody gets bled back home and they're all fine."

James snorted, then caught sight of the cat. He rolled his eyes, changing the subject, "Trust you to bring a cat back with you. I thought you were getting food." He scratched the feline behind the ears as it jumped up beside him.

"Mrrh... She brought muffins, too," the demon told him, and the hand was snatched away with a start. "Yes, ah, I can talk. By the way."

"Er.."

"Would you go back to that scratching? It felt terribly good."

"Amy, what is the meaning of this?" She looked away from the window to meet his fury. "You've enchanted it—how could you—if they find it out—."

"Don't worry. 'It' has a way of staying hidden," the demon cut in with mild irritation. "And besides, she did no magic for me except to make this fish, which I would very much like to eat."

"Well, if you didn't do this, then—could it be—"

"He."

"Excuse me?"

"You keep calling me 'it.' I don't appreciate that."

James glared. "My apologies," he replied stiffly. "Can _he_ be the final one?"

"No," said Amy. "He is someone else entirely."

"What can you mean?"

"Do you remember a certain demon that turned Jack into a horse? The one I may or may not have had a big swordfight with?" She nodded her head toward the tortoiseshell.

"You!" Rage burned an icy green in his eyes as he struggled against his restraints. "You nearly killed her. If I weren't so weak right now, I'd give you the same."

The demon shrank away, crouching down with ears flat and tail between his legs. "I know what I did was wrong. But hurting her was an accident. My intent was to win, not to kill."

"How can you trust him?" the man demanded of her. "After all he's done. He's a _demon_ for Christ's sake."

"Not anymore—keep your voice down, will ya?"

"How can you say 'not anymore'?" he went on in a hoarse whisper. "Once you turn to the Devil, there's no coming back."

"Yes there is. Forgiveness. The man whose name you've just abused." That shut him up.

The demon broke the silence. "I was banished to the life of a cat to atone for my wrongs. I am no longer worthy to be a man. But I cannot complain. Anything is better than what I was. All I seek now is forgiveness from the people I hurt."

"And so you've decided to trust it." James' voice was deadly calm. Amy would have been less intimidated if he had shouted. "Even though it tried to kill you."

"I'm considering it," she replied in a shakily resolute voice. "And I think he'll come in handy; as our eyes around the ship. A cat can go anywhere."

"Perhaps... But can we trust him?"

"Sir, she gave me fish. She has my undying loyalty, not to mention friendly affection."

"If you can be swayed by mere fish—."

"No, no, Mr. Norrington. I pledge fealty to her, not the fish—although it's a nice bonus."

"Well then," James sighed after a long silence of deep thought. "It seems out little group may have just found a new member."

* * *

><p>:3<p> 


	8. Birthday

**Chapter Eight: Captain Jack**

The cat meowed at the closed door. It opened, and he padded inside. "Captain's been talking with the carpenter a lot," he reported, leaping up into a chair and curling his tail around his paws. "I know, it doesn't seem like much—but he was asking how much wood he had."

"What for?" James demanded.

"I'm not sure; he showed Chips a drawing and asked if he could build it. I couldn't see it without being indiscreet."

James sat back with a strained look and rubbed his eyes with his hand. "Now hold on just a minute," Amy cut in, knowing where his thoughts were headed. "I hate to be the sensible one here, but aren't we being just a little paranoid? It's an innocent enough question that I'm sure you yourself have asked on numerous occasions on your own ships, James. How many times have you asked your carpenter to build a decoy mast to lead pursuers astray? We've got this one preconception that we don't even know if it's right, and it's got us jumping to conclusion after conclusion."

"You don't believe he killed my mum?"

"I believe you when you say he did," she assured him soothingly. "But what I don't believe is that they'd let him into the Navy if he was still with the crazies. I mean, I agree with you completely, being careful is important, I just think we're being a bit paranoid, you know?"

James glowered. "If you think that will stop me worrying—"

"Who's stealing lines now?" she smirked.

He sighed. "You're probably right. But that doesn't mean we should let our guard fall, either."

"I suppose I shouldn't ask why a pile of wood complicates things?" the demon asked, sitting up straight.

"Indeed," Norrington replied snappishly.

"It wouldn't be so complicated if we could just poof out of here," the lass grumbled.

"And give eight hundred men every reason to hunt you down?" Her scowl disappeared. "They all discover your abilities, and there will be consequences. Trust me. Now, with the war on the horizon, there will be enough danger as it is. The last thing we need is hundreds of trained fighters breathing down our necks." The war. She'd hardly thought of it at all, since finding out about it so long ago. "If you were to appear somewhere and someone recognized you - it only takes one finger to pull a trigger."

There was a long, smouldering silence. "Eight hundred men?"

James turned his gaze to the demon, who shifted from paw to paw. "Four hundred and seventy-four. You said 'abilities'?"

The lass whistled. "Oh please," the former-commodore scoffed, ignoring the last part. "On a ship like this, I wouldn't be surprised to find a thousand men."

"Then she's undermanned?"

"Incredibly so. Either the Navy's running thin on men, or they didn't think they needed so many hands for the search and capture of one man—but then, why not send a lighter ship?"

"Remember, the _Oblivion_ is still an experiment," the demon reminded him. "They wanted to send her out on a small mission first to see how she sails and all that. Besides—you're an important man. Which abilities?"

"But I've heard of her before. She has that nickname."

"_No Second Chances_," the cat sighed, one ear sideways as though he knew he wouldn't gain anything by asking. "I know. I was there when she got that name. She was still moored in London, being fitted out for her maiden voyage. It was hard to see her from within the bay, as the boathouse hid most of her. Aside from her, the harbour happened to be momentarily unguarded. Now, there was a crew of pirates that had just been captured. To escape the noose, they agreed to sign on as privateers. Their ship had cast off its lines and was making way, but, well, some pirates stay pirates and this particular bunch thought it might be a good idea to steal a second ship and make a bid for freedom. They managed to get control of a fourteen-gun brig and set sail for open water. Not twenty minutes later, the _Oblivion_ blocked their escape and opened fire, a full broadside. They were blown right out of the water—the brig was reduced to splinters, and the crew were reduced to two, who were hanged the next day."

"So she made it impossible for those men ever to have a second chance," James replied. "Goodness—not even into her maiden voyage, and she already had a reputation."

The demon nodded. "Navy has high hopes for her."

"And I'm having lower and lower hopes for Jack, once he gets back to pirating," the lass replied.

"Yes, well we have to put him back together first, which we can't do until we get out of here, which we can't do with magic, is that clear?" The cat had the sense not to ask, because he'd just been generously given several answers, however vague.

"Yes sir," Ames sighed, before suddenly perking up. "I brought sweet-potato muffins."

"Oh you are an angel!"

—

The door opened and closed. The cabin was dark. The shadowed figure sitting behind the desk did not bother to rise. "Ah. You. You'd better be here to tell me everything is ready."

"Well, sir, about that mixture—what could you possibly want with something like that?"

"We have a rat infestation, which the cat has failed to subdue. The recipe I ordered; it will take care of them quite easily."

"But so high a concentration for mere rats, sir?"

"I want to make _absolutely sure _that they cannot come back. Go, now, and I had better not see you again until that mixture is complete."

"I'll have it to you before noon tomorrow, sir."

"Very good. Now get back to work—and send that carpenter in."

"Yes, sir." With a hasty bow, the surgeon exited the captain's cabin.

—

"Sh, James, do you feel that?" Amy interrupted a conversation the next morning, a hand going to his arm. They both felt it, and in the silence it only seemed to intensify. Her gaze darted to the demon, who sat rigid on the chair and had not said a word all morning.

"I don't like it," James growled.

She sighed in answer as they cast about for the source of that strange sense of foreboding. "I know this feeling; this is how it's been feeling in my world—only it's less intense here. I haven't been there in ages," she added with a sigh.

"What does it mean?"

"The Realms are struggling to maintain their separation. It must be getting more intense." She turned to look him in the eye. "We're running out of time, James. We hafta get outta here."

"How long do we have?"

"A little less than a month."

"Then we have time to spare keeping 'the crazies,' as you call them, off our backs."

"James, we can't wait!"

He wasn't sure whether to glare at the level of intensity and—desperation?—in her eyes, or take it seriously. At length, he sighed and said, "Compromise: If we cannot make our escape by week's end, we drop all precaution and magic our way out."

"All right."

"But, until then we keep our guard up, and keep the magic to a minimum. Do we have a deal?"

That would give them four days.

She considered this for a few moments, then shook his hand. "Agreed."

They wouldn't need four days.

—

"I'm so nervous," she confessed that afternoon, straddling the bowsprit with the demon beside her. James was still in his cabin.

"What for?" the demon replied. "You've been a normal mortal girl all your life—why is acting the same way now so different?"

She looked sharply at the tortoiseshell. "You figured all that out?"

"You two have been very generous in vague details."

"I guess James is warming up to you, if he's letting us slip up so much." The cat flicked his tail. "But what if the captain suspects me? I mean, let's face it, even when I'm acting normal, I'm a strange person. _So_ strange."

"Come on," he said reassuringly, butting his head against her arm, "what are the chances?"

She scratched him behind the ears. "He burned James's mother. And besides that, he's in the Navy—he has no qualms about killing people."

"Mr Norrington is in the Navy. He has a conscience."

"Was. And besides, I wasn't saying being in the Navy makes you an emotionless killer. I was saying that he's in a profession that demands the deaths of others, and he's killed a person off-duty, too. What's more, a woman. The combination of a penchant for killing people and a profession with a murderous mindset—_that's_ what I mean." She leaned forward against the bowsprit with a sigh.

"But is he savage enough to kill a child?"

"I'm not so much of a child anymore, though. Today's my sixteenth birthday."

"Sixteen and no longer a child? I've never heard such nonsense. That aside, Mandel's been told you're fifteen, so your advantage of youth is more than you think."

She only sighed again. "Let's just hope Mandel sees it like that."

—

"Oh you're gonna be fine. You'll look adorable, trust me."

"Eheheh..." This was so awkward. She was soaking in a tub—she had been expecting privacy—but here was a man, a grown man, assigned to attend her. He was here to supervise her washing, dress her, and take care of hair and makeup. However unshy she was—for truthfully she really wasn't very shy in that way—she had no idea how she was supposed to act in this sort of situation—James hadn't mentioned anything about its possibiility—and thus denied the flamboyant Mr. Harkness any chance to view what he should not, ordering him to turn around until she had gotten into the tub.

"Enough dirt in here to fill in a road. Give yourself a good scrub now." At present, she was as low in the water as she could be and still have her head above the surface, with Mr. Harkness supervising. "What's got you so anxious?" he asked sincerely, though in almost a teasing tone. "Most commodore's-nieces get this treatment with every bath. Living in the lap of luxury—you should be proud."

As flamboyant as he seemed to be, he made her nervous; for at the same time, he seemed completely straight. Ahh, the _stereotypical conundrum_. And aside from that, he seemed somehow familiar, and she couldn't quite place him. "You're American?" she changed the subject.

"You could say that."

"But you had an English accent earlier."

"Hey, so did you," he countered with a smile. "Sort of. (And it wasn't English, it was supposed to be Welsh.)"

"Yuh—but I get the feeling that most Americans don't talk the way you do."

"You know what else they don't do? They don't refer to themselves as Americans. That hasn't happened yet—not for a few years." He talked like he knew the future—or rather like he knew the past and was present out of his time. Those sparkling, bright blue eyes burned into her, like he knew everything—like he could see everything. She crossed her arms protectively over her chest. "I suppose it's time to wash your hair. Don't protest—everyone would be able to tell the difference if you did it and not me. Scandal—and I'd lose my job. Besides, how often do you get to be pampered by a handsome guy like me?" Even when she couldn't see him, she knew that cheeky grin—_where_ had she seen it before? _Springtime for Hitler_ began to play in her head—somehow it was related, but she failed to recognize any connexion. He began to massage the soap into her hair, humming a tune. With his focus absorbed on something other than being generally flirtatious, she felt safe to retreat into her thoughts. "You know, you have great hair. Too bad I can't give you the hairstyle I want to—then I'd get hanged."

She was only half listening, still singing 'The Producers' in her head. An image of the Lead Tenor popped into her mind—it was a blonde version of Mr. Harkness, she realized. Maybe they were parallels. But no, the connexion went deeper than that. Who had played the lead tenor? She had never bothered to learn the actor's name. With a little boost of mental magic, she fastforwarded the film playing in her head to the credits. As soon as she sawr the name, she returned to herself. It was a familiar name; the actor was from one of her favourite television shows—but how long had it been since she had watched TV? Even when she was at home, she didn't watch any more because she was busy trying to keep up with school and magic at the same time. _John Barrowman. Hmmm..._

"You know, you're cute," he told her boldly, casually, after she'd dressed.

"I told you not to look!" she shrieked, scandalized. She had never been flirted with before, and couldn't tell he had been joking. He only gave her that eerily familiar cheeky smile. "I can't believe this—stuck with an old man who thinks he's still got it."

"Hey, I _have_ still got it. You're cute, but you're way too young for me." She noticed he did not deny her claim to his age, even though he really looked very young. "Whoa, hang on a minute, was that a British accent just now? Which one's real and which one's fake?"

"Both of them are real. Now then, where were we?"

"Hair and makeup. Right." He toweled out her hair, brushed through it, and put it into a nice, modest french braid that ran down to the small of her back. "Hopefully this has been invented already. It not, well, one more thing to give me credit for." And on to the makeup. "A little rouge here, some powder there, just the right amount of eye shadow, and..." he showed her a mirror, "a fine gentlewoman. What do you think?"

She looked his reflection in the eye. "When did you give up your title as captain?"

He stared back, nonplussed, as though he had been expecting the question. "Well you can't very well have two captains on the same ship, can you? Besides, it wasn't a real title."

"Just like Jack Harkness isn't your real name—although I suppose that's as close as it'll ever get."

* * *

><p>:D<p> 


	9. Stake Dinner

Hey all, sorry for the slight wait; school work ran away with me, and I had a deadline for a submission to Org Infinitus. I've also been drowning in a creative writing class that is EATING MY LIFE.

**Chapter Nine: The Serpent in the Garden**

"You know, I really hate wearing dresses and being all dolled up," she complained to James as she regarded herself in the glass. She turned to him. "Am I 'pretty'? Is this what 'pretty' is supposed to be?"

Having never seen her in a dress, James was quite at a loss. "This is the most feminine I have ever seen you—and it suits you," he added earnestly.

She pursed her lips. "Yuck. I'll take casual and dowdy any day. At least Jack did a nice job with the make-up. How's my hair?"

"Clean. Jack who?"

"Sorry; Mr. Harkness, the man who was attending me."

"The captain's steward, I suppose."

"I guess." And she knew he was one more person who would rebel if necessary. "Speaking of which," she rounded on him, "you might've warned me I would be getting a bath from another man! I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed in my life!"

James ducked his head. "I—er —oops."

"And do you know what? He was _flirting_ with me! I never been flirted with in my life, I've got no idea what you're supposed to do."

"He didn't behave too untowardly, I hope?" her guardian asked with concern.

"He didn't try anything. I think he was just having a laugh at my expense."

"Well, he's done a decent job of cleaning you up; at least there is that."

"Too bad they didn't take into account that I haven't got any shoes."

"Yes. What a shame not to have the complete outfit."

"I've got boots—I could wear those."

"No, don't. Don't do that."

"Well what should I do? Go barefoot?"

"Not at all! How entirely inappropriate. You'd best borrow a pair off of a midshipman."

"All right." She couldn't stop thinking about how awkward things were bound to be—and if there was one thing she was afraid of, it was awkward moments. Thus, an air of uneasiness spread about her. "You know," she attempted humour, "if it was anyone else, I'd take it as an opportunity to mess with them a little bit. But the captain is so—I dunno, funless. I don't think I'd get any reaction out of him."

"And besides that, messing with _him_ could mess things up for _us_."

"So you keep saying," she dismissed his concern. "He might have done some rotten things in the past, but I live in the now, and right now I see no reason not to trust him. Yeah, he whipped you, but that was standard procedure after the lip you gave him—some of the boys told me what you said to him. I'm sorry I missed it—I would've payed to see it. But anyway, as far as I've seen, Mandel's only been doing his job and there's nothing wrong with that."

"But Amy, he's dangerous," he hissed.

"So are you. Technically. The only danger we've ever known him to be is in the past. That's not how I work; I can't judge a person for who they were; I need to judge them for who they are."

"And I admire that in you, but your penchant for seeing the good in people is blinding you to what may really be going on."

"Look. I understand where you're coming from. I'm not a completely oblivious person—you said it yourself back at the Faithful Bride; if something's not right, I'll know. But until I do, I'm not gonna go around thinking people are out to get me." She sighed unexpectedly. "You're probably right—don't assume I think you're a lunatic and don't trust your judgement. But I want to be able to make my own judgements."

"Why the sudden change of heart? Yesterday, you seemed so sure that he was a threat—you _feared_ him—but now, you're defending him."

"Because I _really_ don't want you to be right."

"I—don't understand."

"We keep looking for reasons for this assumption to be right—its really not something you want to be right about. I mean, yeah, I'll keep my guard up—I always have my guard up. It's not like, just because I'm not suspicious of him, I'll flash it around about my magic. I'm not an idiot. But neither am I going to assume he's out to get me."

James sighed. "All right."

"I don't know what's got you like this. It's just supper. One evening."

"Completely alone behind a closed door—"

"Not really; Groves said there would be others."

"—and me locked up in here; I wouldn't be able to protect you." He shifted to nurse his arm, which was throbbing. "Besides me being helpless myself as it is."

He would get pulled into one of his black moods if she didn't stop him. With a nod of understanding, she countered. "One: you can free yourself just as easily as I can—you know I enchanted them to snap when you kick hard enough. B—no—Two: I can take care of myself. You've been training me to fight. You've been tutor and mentor to me and my sword nonstop, and I know I've been getting better. Three, or C: you are not helpless. You're ambidextrous, you're quick, and you're clevah. That's all you need. And, coming in at a very low four, or D, or that little 'iv' in brackets they put in footnotes: Bye!" As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

"Here to escort the Miss to the Captain's cabin," the officer announced, introducing himself as Whitby, master's mate.

"Thank you, sir," she replied promptly, businesslike, taking his proffered arm. "See you later, James. Much love. Wish me luck."

"Good luck, love." The door closed. "You may need it."

Acting quickly, Amy was able to borrow a pair of shoes from one of the tinier midshipmen, but even then they were two sizes too big and felt like they flopped and dragged with every step. She felt like a clown clomping around in them, and, afraid she might trip and make the night even more awkward, she slowly made them shrink as she walked. Nobody would notice her shoes, anyway, as long as she didn't draw attention to them. Once topside again, for all her Norrington-like composure, she couldn't help her heartbeat accelerating as they neared the foreboding door atop the quarterdeck. Upon reaching it, Mr. Whitby raised his fist and rapped smartly against the wood. There was a ready "Enter," and the master's mate turned the handle.

"Presenting Miss Norrington, sir," he announced with a salute.

"Welcome, Miss Norrington," Captain Mandel greeted her, and for half a moment he looked pleasant. She paused to take in the company. There was a lieutenant junior to Groves, the master, the captain of the marines, a pair of midshipmen, and of course, Whitby. "Come, child, have a seat," said Mandel, pulling out the chair across from him. There would be no escaping his notice among friendlier faces.

"Thank you, Captain, and good evening," she replied British-ly as she gathered her skirts. And so it began.

As the food would still be several minutes, the company fell to stiff and formal conversations, aware of their captain's presence, and bound by custom not to speak unless spoken to. At the moment, the Captain, lieutenant, and master were deep into a conversation about the best conditions for studding sails and sky sails, and debating the usefulness of moonrakers and kites, occasionally shooting a comment, explanation, or question at the others.

The cabin door swung open and Jack Harkness, as the steward, entered with the tray of food. She felt something warm and furry curl up at her feet and realized the demon must be underneath the table. At least she wasn't alone anymore. Although with Jack here... she could only hope he wouldn't be flirtatious now of all times. He set the meat pie and steak-and-kidney pudding on the table and everyone set to eating. It smelled delicious, and Amy's stomach growled, but she knew she would have to eat slowly and daintily and politely and not stuff her face. It was infuriating.

"I must say, that dress is very nice, miss," the Captain commented when the pie had finished, regarding her over his wineglass. "It becomes you. Don't it, lads?" The sailors agreed, some because they were bound by custom to agree with their captain, and a few with real appreciation. "Purely out of curiosity, I must ask: how did you come by it?—surely you didn't bring it aboard?"

"No, sir. As soon as James heard I was to come to dine, he decided that I should have a dress and sent for one to be made." She thought that might be it—maybe they would go back to talking boringly about their sails.

"You and Mr. Norrington are related, I hear?" Mandel went on.

"I never knew he had family," put in the master.

"Distantly," the lass replied evenly. "But he looks after me."

"Should it not be the other way around?"

"Sir?"

"Most madmen themselves require looking after."

She bit her lip uneasily. Everyone was looking at her expectantly. "It's never happened before. Not until he was flogged." And he hasn't been mad since, she was tempted to add.

"Then an unfortunate chance of events. But a flogging like that would not be enough to break any man, much less an iron-will like him. Something must have driven him over the edge some time ago." Vaguely, she felt a sense of danger. But surely, even if Mandel was after her, he wouldn't try anything in the company of other men?

"Well I can only imagine what," she answered carefully, though competently, looking into each sailor's face as she spoke. "It's a wonder that any man who is on the constant lookout for danger and who has been in as many fights and battles hasn't gone mad."

The feeling was still there. "Perhaps. This life has been known to push many to paranoia, and yes, even to madness. But he had the stuffs of a man unaffected." There were murmurs of agreement from around the table. Perhaps they all knew James' reputation. "Would it, do you think, have anything to do with his mysterious disappearance nearly two years past?" Heads snapped up.

Amy's brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm afraid I wouldn't know anything about that. I only met him in the last year. And in the time I've known him, he has always been perfectly sane."

"Is that so. And you know nothing about his disappearance?"

"I hadn't been aware that he had disappeared until just now, sir."

"Of course you weren't." Something inside her clicked, and a wave of apprehension swept over her; it had gone in the next moment. "What do you think of my ship, my dear?"

"She is quite lovely, sir. Beautiful, powerful, not to mention spacious."

This seemed to satisfy him. "Yes, miss. And for all her size, she moves quickly."

"Like a horse, if you don't mind my comparison."

"How so?"

"Horses look like great lumbering creatures at first sight, but they are swift, graceful, and noble."

Mandel smiled—it was the first smile she'd seen, and she didn't know whether to be pleased. "Quite so, Miss Norrington."

"And how cavernous a cabin! Any other captain's cabins I've been in were half as large at the most." Amy didn't like how the subject had been centered on her these last few minutes. She hoped piling compliments would save her from conversations too personal until the food arrived.

"Other cabins such as that of the _Black Pearl_, am I correct?" It had been too much to hope. "If you will excuse my asking; I know very little about who you are." Without waiting for her consent, he went on. "I have heard of your association with Sparrow? How did you meet?"

"He saved me from the sea, and sort of took it onto himself to keep me safe."

"How did you come to be in the open water?"

"Shipwreck, sir," she lied. "It was how I got separated from my parents."

"And he took responsibility, did he? Spontaneously, without getting to know you first? How very unlike a pirate."

"Even Jack Sparrow has a conscience, sir."

"He never used to. Tell me, how did he propose to protect you in such a dangerous profession as his?"

"He was going to drop me off in Port Royal to stay with friends of his while he went out pirating."

"Yet despite his efforts, danger still found you."

Her spine stiffened. "Sir?"

"Rumour has it you were very nearly burned at the stake. They thought you a witch?"

"Crazy, isn't it?" she replied with a nervous laugh. Whitby and a few others laughed with her.

"It is. Will you tell us about it?"

"Now, sir, look how pale you've made her. Imagine, making the poor girl remember something like that," sympathized the master.

"It is a simple enough question, I hope."

"It's all right," Amy forced herself to say. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you survive?" The other sailors were looking at her with real interest. She was suddenly more than dainty female company.

"Jack and James saved me."

"They worked together to save you? Two sworn enemies? How very curious."

"It's amazing what love can do, sir. It changes people."

"And I suppose it was love that changed the minds of everyone in the rumoured angry mob in an instant?"

"No, sir, I believe it was respect for James that quelled them."

"And yet you feel safe to return to Port Royal?" Mandel continued with a look of well-meant concern. "Does anyone still think you are guilty?"

"No," she replied immediately. Then, realizing she had answered too abruptly, added, "Well, no one has ever come after me since. The removal of Mr. Welsh was all that was needed."

"And how was he removed?"

"James had him arrested."

There was a short beat of silence before Mandel opened his mouth to say something else. But he was interrupted by the return of his steward with the food. To herself, Amy sighed a breath of relief. They had stayed on that subject much too long, and he had been asking too many, albeit harmless, questions.

"Dinner is served," he announced, fake Welsh accent back in place, as he and his assistants set the shoulder of mutton and various other dishes on the table.

_Thank God_, she thought with relief.

"Were you expecting something else to eat, Miss Norrington?" Mandel asked, eyeing her relief critically.

"I'm just glad it isn't horse, sir."

"And why is that?"

"I like horses, sir. The alive kind." Some of the men smiled—even Jack was smiling to himself as he began to carve and serve the meat.

To go with the sheep, there were potatoes, pease pudding, and a smattering of mixed vegetables, seasoned and etc. Amy looked at the carrots and the squash and the asparagus with dread, knowing she could not be polite and picky about her food at the same time. Jack produced a bottle of wine. "Madeira, '31."

"Capital, capital year," Mandel approved. "Refill every glass." Uh-oh. Amy hadn't touched her wine. If there was one thing she despised, it was the taste of the wine. Jack went around the table, refilling the sailors' glasses. The captain was bound to notice if Jack skipped her because she had refused to drink decent wine. Casually, she lifted the wine to her lips and pretended to drink. The level went down a little. The demon, sensing mischief, sank his claws into her ankle. She discreetly nudged him away and put her glass down, noticeably emptier. Jack had come around to refill it, giving her a wink as he did.

"If it's not too bold to ask," she forced herself to pipe up as he was heading for the door, "may I also please have some water?"

"O' course, Miss Norrington," he replied with one of his charming smiles, not bothering to look to his captain for permission. It was an innocent enough request.

"How about a toast, Miss?"

"I—I don't know anything about giving toasts, sir, but—Good health to the King, long may he live."

"Here here," Mandel and the men raised their glasses and drank. Amy herself joined in, again pretending to take a sip. For all its good smell, she knew it'd taste horrible.

And so they attacked their meals with well-refined gusto. It was her first time having mutton, and she rather enjoyed it_._ She only wished she could enjoy it less _daintily_. And, for all her disdain of the vegetables present, she managed to down them without making a face. Still, there was a problem. At any meal, she usually drank as much as she ate. As thirst began to clawr at her throat, she cast about for something to drink. Not the wine. Anything but the wine. Lucky for her, Harkness returned just then with her water. And with relief, she dared to relax a little.

She still wasn't quite sure how to cut her meat without sawing at it like a child, and she felt Mandel and her neighbors watching her critically. Self consciously, she made the meat separate beheath her knife. Again the cat swatted at her with his claws. _Stop that,_ she thought frustratedly at him.

_I will when you do._

When the mutton was finished, Jack returned with bowls of the cook's famous chowder. It would go down nicely after that mutton. At least this time she knew which spoon to use.

"So the miss likes horses," Mandel began as they blew on the hot soup. "Might that have anything to do with Jack Sparrow?"

"Sir?" asked one of the men, not seeing the connection.

"Din't you 'ear? Which 'e got 'imself cursed again. Turns into an 'orse now, don't 'e," another supplied.

"Did his strange enchantment spur your interest, if you'll pardon the pun?" Bound by custom, a few of the men chuckled.

"No, although it was a rather interesting coincidence."

"I suppose you are referring to the fact that he did not become cursed until you met him."

Her spine stiffened; this was too close to an accusation. The demon put his paw on her foot again, this time not in disapproval, but in warning. "Yes sir, although I can assure you it had nothing to do with my presence. I was merely cast into his life at the same time that whatever 'enchanting' event took place." That wasn't quite how she'd meant to phrase it, but there was hardly any better way. "I mean—."

"I understand, Miss Norrington," Mandel replied with what seemed like a sincere smile. The demon removed his paw. Amy stirred her soup and watched the steam rise. "Have you heard about his death?"

She deflated. "Jack's? I've heard very little, and it saddened me so."

"No one knows how he died; only that there is one less pest on these waters."

"A pest, perhaps, but like family nonetheless, sir."

"It is a curious thing," Mandel went on, ignoring the remark, "how something so subtle as to remain unknown could spell the demise of a man even the Navy could not detain."

"I only wish I could have been with him to say goodbye." _But soon I'll be saying 'hello', you ignorant—_

"What do you suppose killed him?" She looked up, alarmed that he was asking her; but he had directed it at the table and was inviting speculation from the men. Conversation turned to more petty things after that, and she began to feel safe again—not that she hadn't as it was, she mused, but...

Dessert was soon served; spotted dick. "You look uncertain, Miss," he commented as she stared at the wobbly mass before her. "Have you not had pudding before?"

"Not this kind, sir. I tend to avoid food that moves on its own." This earned a laugh from the men.

"A glass of wine with you, Miss," said Whitby with mirth, and she had to bow to him and pretend to drink. Much relieved now that the tension had dispersed, she tasted a spoonful of the pudding. It was a lot better than she had been expecting. But what could it be made of? Definitely fruit in it, of course. James had said something about suet. She didn't want to know what that was.

"Are you aware of what will happen upon your arrival in Port Royal, Miss Norrington?"

"I know that James will stand trial."

"And upon being found guilty, he will be hung."

"Now, sir, surely that is a conversation best left for another time," protested the lieutenant. There were nods of agreement all round. Amy blinked gratefully. Perhaps they were not afraid to disagree with their captain? More likely, he was beginning to get drunk and they were covering up for him.

Dismissing the subject, Mandel went on. "You said you knew nothing of his disappearance two years ago. What of his disappearance a few months ago, near the beginning of this year?" Her spine stiffened, and the demon's paw was back. _Shoot!_ "If my memory is not too wine-addled, you said you met him a year ago."

"How did he disappear?" she asked, stalling for time to think up a good cover. Mandel encouraged the captain of the marines, who had apparently been there, to explain.

"In Port Royal, Sparrow showed up. Mr Norrington allowed him to escape, and deserted almost immediately when he tried to escape punishment. Pursuit led the search to a half-collapsed barn, which all had seen him enter. However, upon investigation, there was no sign of him. The building was empty. And further searches proved he was not on the island, which is why we took to the sea. He simply vanished."

The rational part of her mind told her that he had every right to be curious—any man would seek answers to a mystery like that—and she allowed herself to relax just a little. _Don't worry_, she thought to the demon, who stubbornly kept a warning paw on her foot. "Perhaps he escaped and put on some distance while the marines were checking the building." Mandel nodded, as though he were beginning to understand. "I mean, the more time the men spent searching, the bigger a head start James would have gained." The captain sat back, seeming to be satisfied with this answer. They returned to their neglected pudding.

Amy was almost giddy with relief—supper was nearly over, and nothing had gone wrong. The only problem was that what remained to do was drinking wine. "A glass of wine with you, sir." "A glass of wine with you, Lieutenant." "The bottle stands by you, Mr Whitby."

"Shall—shall I take my leave, then?" she forced herself to ask, beginning to rise. She had read that the women left meals early so the men could be men.

"Already? The evening is young, miss, and you're the guest of honour! Why not have some wine?"

"My goodness, I'm so full. I haven't got room for anything more."

Mandel leaned forward in his chair, his face flushed like so many others at the table. "Won't you at least have one glass, Miss? You've barely touched it all night—and it is such good wine, too. What do you say to the first glass out of this new bottle? Capital year."

"Of course, sir." With a pleasant smile, she lifted the glass for him to fill, and pretended to drink. When she put it down it was empty. A few drops coated her lips and, not wanting to stain her napkin, she ran her tongue over them. A little wouldn't kill her. _Why, this isn't wine at all; it's grape juice. But it tastes weird. Different sugar?Whoa. _ For a moment, she felt dizzy. _Isn't grape juice either. Almost tastes like candy_. She had a real shock. Wine didn't taste like candy, and neither did grape juice. Even as her head swam, her mind raced. _Tincture of opium!_ Had he been trying to get her to talk, or knock her out?

She could not hide her surprise fast enough. That feeling of danger returned, as Mandel rose from his seat. "Please, Miss, won't you have another drink?" he asked in mocking tones, and she knew he definitely was not drunk. "It's rude to leave a quality drink unfinished." Amy jumped up from her seat and ran for the door. She flung it open and raced out into the dimming daylight, darting around sailors and an odd pile of wood. "Stop her!" she heard Mandel shout, and she felt hands grabbing for her. She had to get to James. But enough men were chasing after her, and she was soon caught. _Help me!_ she thought to him frantically as she was dragged back, kicking and struggling, to the captain—but her nephew's mind was otherwise occupied, and she wasn't sure he'd heard her.

"Sir," she heard Theodore behind her. "What is going on?" She tried to turn around to look at him, but the marines holding her arms would not allow it. And without the use of her arms, she could not magic.

"This girl is guilty of several crimes, among which is the performance of witchcraft. Chips! Is it ready?"

"Aye, sir." And she realized that the pile of wood to starboard had a purpose: it was a stake and platform, much like the one back at Port Royal, all those months ago. _No, no, no, no, no!_

"That's preposterous!" Cries of disagreement rang out. "There's no such thing!"

"I heard her speak it with my own ears." Silence on the ship. "She will stand trial immediately." The crew assembled around them. "Over the course of our conversations in my cabin, I have inferred her responsibility for several crimes, all of which are related to witchcraft. In chronological order: she sank whatever ship she had been traveling on, drowning everyone aboard—whether or not her parents really were aboard as she says is debatable. She then proceeded to enchant Jack Sparrow to her will, which is the reason the _Black_ _Pearl_ landed in Port Royal, and also the reason for his horse-related curse. The _Miss_ has stated that she likes horses very much. Another man saw through her innocent facade and attempted to bring her to justice at the stake. But this time she enchanted someone of stature; someone of power: Commodore Norrington, who, with the already enchanted Jack Sparrow, came to her rescue. Whether the mob quieted out of respect for either of these men remains to be seen; but that an entire town of mobbing citizens would drop their aggression immediately and never speak of it again reeks of suspicion."

"And can you explain any of these accusations, sir?" Groves interrupted cautiously.

"Yes I can. Of my first points: This girl had barely met Jack Sparrow before he fell victim to his strange equine curse. And do you not think it strange that, of all the ships that might have come upon her, the ship claimed to be the fastest in all the Caribbean was the one that picked her up? The ship that always seemed to evade justice? Of the latter points: how many people have been set afire at the stake and survived? I understand that the occasional innocent may have lost her life to the flames; but it is the ones who survive who surely must have black magic on their side. Lieutenant Groves told me himself that our dear former-Commodore seemed content to watch her burn before suddenly jumping in to play the hero." Amy's head shot up to glare accusingly at Theodore, but he avoided her gaze. "And," Mandel went on, "for all the time that Sparrow remained in Port Royal after then, no one came after him; it is rumoured he even stayed in the Governor's mansion. How could this be?" A pause to let all of this sink in. "Do the officers have any evidence to refute this?" Silence from the lieutenants, although Mr. Whitby was looking appropriately pissed off at his captain. "Do the witnesses have anything to say?"

It was a few moments before Theodore realized everyone was looking at him. "Er—James never looked content to watch her die. He just seemed to be struggling to make a decision that, once made, had to be acted upon quickly. Aside from that, sir, I do not think his honour would allow him to let a young woman die, guilty or not—especially one related to him. And he does not believe in witches."

_Actually you're wrong there, Teddy_, she thought ruefully. _He does now_.

"Can you find fault with the rest of the proof examined?"

"Well, sir, it's not really proof. We don't know what really went on." The other officers suddenly didn't look so sure.

"I understand that, Lieutenant. I merely bring up these points to make you all think—and think very hard. How could so many 'lucky coincidences' be allotted one ordinary, insignificant girl?" The other lieutenants looked really unsure now—even Whitby was looking thoughtful. "Perhaps I shall bring up further points to persuade you."

_Don't do anything yet,_ Ames told herself. _Give them a chance._ She _could_ get out of here right quick—but that would only prove Mandel right. She would wait and see if the crew would rebel—but it would be really close. Rebellions like these never happened till the last minute.

"Mr. Norrington," the captain went on self-assuredly, "very recently betrayed the Navy by allowing his worst enemy to escape on the claim that they were brothers. Hatred like theirs does not just disintegrate into brotherly love instantaneously—and to add to the crime, he deserted on the spot. You can see the unlikelihood of all this; we all know the sacrifices he is willing to make to keep his commision. We all know what it means to him. James Norrington would not give it up for the world, much less for Jack Sparrow, unless enchanted. And to top off that day of uncanny experiences, he vanished into thin air. The girl claims he found an exit; but the building, as I know it, was surrounded."

"I didn't claim it; jes' suggested it," she corrected him indignantly.

"Yes, but you seemed _very_ certain." She certainly did _not_ like that gleam in his eyes. "Now, James Norrington is a strong man, I'll give him that. Strong in body, strong in mind, and strong in will. He is not the sort of man to be broken, nor is he weak enough to succumb to whatever enchantments that have been placed upon him. Inside his soul, he has been fighting her spells until it drove him mad. I'm sure you all noticed that _she_ was the only one who could calm him when he lost control." He shot her an accusing look.

"He cares about me, that's all," she replied haughtily. "If it had been Elizabeth Swann instead of me, the same thing would have happened."

"Would it? I dare say Mrs. Turner would have been certain enough of her own safety to embrace a madman who is pointing a gun at her!"

"But I didn't feel safe at all—I was scared out of my mind."

"Then why did you not run?"

"I care about him too much. I could never leave him like that."

"Of course, he is much too valuable a minion to lose." He turned back to the assembly. "He vanished out of Port Royal, and the next time we see him, months later, he is a different man, like a caged animal; unpredictable; unstable. I do not know what happened the first time he disappeared, years ago, but I will venture to guess that she was responsible for that as well."

"She was not," Theodore piped up. "I was there. Even if what you say is true, there is no way she could have been involved."

"And how can you know that?"

"What happened then was between him and God."

That shut him up. "Very well. Thank you, Mr Groves."

"Sir."

"With all of this that has been inferred, I would even venture to say that she is somehow related to the cause of Jack Sparrow's death. But I will not hold that against her, for in that case she did us a favour. However, no deed, however helpful, can be considered a good deed if it was done with black magic."

She heard a few murmurs in the crowd. Were they agreeing? Was Mandel succeeding? She couldn't tell, but it was starting to look like this wouldn't turn out so well. She consulted her famous intuition, but could sense nothing. _Great, just when I need it most_, she grumbled to herself.

"Even this very day I ran afoul of more evidence against her case." He rounded on her. "Where did your shoes come from?"

She glared into his face. "I told you, I borrowed them—"

"—From a midshipman, yes. Now, who here can bring me a midshipman with feet as small as these? No one? Then why do these shoes fit her so perfectly?"

"Please, sir, they're mine," said the midshipman who had been thoughtful enough to spare them.

"Come, put them on then. and see if they fit."

"They wouldn't, sir," the boy replied cautiously. Everyone jerked round to stare. Was he siding with the captain?

"And why not?" Mandel asked encouragingly.

"They were the smallest pair I had, sir. I'd grown out of them some time ago." How could he be so certain they didn't fit? Was he trying to cover up for her?

"We have not been at sea above a month. You cannot have grown that much in that time."

"No, sir. I brought them as spares in case someone needed them."

"Tell me, then, why are you wearing your best shoes today?" Amy's eyes flitted down to his polished shoes. He had loaned her his day-to-day ones.

"These are my only other pair, sir."

"Aha! He is lying. She has enchanted him as well." A few of the more superstitious sailors around the midshipman withdrew. "What would a witch want on our ship, men? Think about it. We are aboard the _HMS Oblivion_, the most powerful ship out of England—and thus, the world. She is here, trying to take control. Her intent all along, I believe, was to enchant us—to control us! She was spellweaving at my very dinnertable."

This was where the crew had had enough, and they cried out how ridiculous it was. What about the men who had been in there with them? Wouldn't they have agreed that something was amiss?

"Very good point. Mr Whitby," he turned accusingly to the master's mate. "You were seated beside her. Did you ever see her lips touch her wine?"

"I—I dunno, sir," he replied falteringly. "It's not the sort of thing I look for."

"Did you notice whether she licked her lips or dabbed them after drinking."

"She didn't, sir, I don't think."

Mandel turned to the captain of the marines. "What about you? Did her lips touch her wine?"

"They, er, didn't seem to, sir. I reckoned she was mighty graceful to be drinking like that."

"And yet her wine always disappeared, did it not?"

"Yes, sir."

He turned to the master. "While you and the other men were getting red in the face, did you ever notice a flush in the girl's face?"

"No, sir."

"Even though she matched us glass for glass?"

"I—don't know how many she had, sir."

"And what of her mutton? She barely had to touch the blade of her knife to it before it came away, like our own skin under the Doctor's scalpel."

"Maybe she is just graceful, sir."

"No urchin possesses grace enough to cut tough meat without a bone saw. No urchin is graceful enough to walk about in shoes much too large without tripping up or stepping wrong. No urchin keeps her head after half a dozen glasses of wine." There was a collective 'Hmmm' of discontent from the men—many of them had been considered urchins, and they regarded their own manners as decent enough. Mandel failed to hear this. "And, she knew—she _knew_—to ask for water when she was served wine. She drank a glassful from an unopened bottle and suffered no effects because she hadn't drunk any at all. She _knew_, without ever having a sip, that I had mixed tincture of opium into the new bottle to loosen up her lips a little." _That_ got the crew riled up. The captain and his officers shouted themselves hoarse to maintain order as the sailors yelled their dissent.

"Aha," smirked the lass, despite her restraints. "That's where the real dishonesty is revealed. You betrayed the trust of an innocent girl like me by slipping a drug into her drink—all because you are a suspicious, bitter old man." Mandel scowled, and before he could retort, she went on: "D'you know what's wrong with all your 'evidence', Captain? _Do_ you? It's based entirely on the assumption that a lot of good luck and coincidences make me a witch. Look at Uncle Sparrow, will you? He runs into _many_ strange coincidences, and his good luck is legendary. And yet, no one accuses _him_ of witchcraft."

"You know, she has a point there," someone in the crowd yelled, and there were nods of agreement all around.

"You mustn't listen to what she says. Her words only convince you because she is enchanting you. Do not hear them."

"You're going to make these men suspicious of every person they trust, you idiot man," she protested. "If you won't hear my words, then hear their meaning. This is not an age where we burn people based on primitive suspicions, nor where we define the unexplainable as supernatural. This is an age where we begin to move _forward._"

"You see how easily she changes your mind! Tie her to the stake; she shall burn!"

"Sir, I really don't think—."

"I am the judge here, as you well know, and I deem her guilty. Tie her. Now, unless you want a court marshal, by God!"

_Darnit, James was right._ She was hauled up onto the platform, which she learned was hollow, and tied securely to the stake. Not once did she get the chance to move her arms or legs to magic—but she was still waiting for the crew to make their move.

"Sir, a fire on this ship would be catastrophic," the lieutenants had resorted to other means of reasoning. If not for the preservation of human life, then for the preservation of the precious _Oblivion_.

"It is a good job I thought of that. Haul her up!" And she was hoisted up by a system of pulleys attached to the stake until the contraption was dangling over the water, hanging from the end of a yardarm. "The ropes will burn through, and it will fall into the water, you see? If she does now burn to death first, then she will drown." Struggling to keep her balance—and her dinner—Amy looked out over the men. The crew were getting ready. She saw a few marines priming their guns at the back of the crowd. And she did not fail to notice Jack Harkness reaching into his coat for what was surely a weapon of some sort. He gave her a huge wink and a suppressed grin.

"You know, sir, I believe I've found another flaw in your court: you never gave me a chance to defend myself."

"Nothing you can say will cloud my judgement. I know the truth."

"So I'm defenseless. A defenseless girl of sixteen." A few murmurs among the crowd.

"I was told you were fifteen."

"Is that so? Then you would've been willing to kill me even younger?"

"Any witch deserves death, no matter the age. Your black magic has corrupted your youth and stolen your innocence. Therefore, I condemn you to burn for eternity."

"Captain, maybe we should refrain—," Lt Richards began, but Mandel cut him off.

"Refrain? She is a threat to the lives of others. It is our duty to eradicate such threats."

"It is your duty," came a voice, and all heads turned to see James striding through the crowd, shirtless once more, a bloody bandage wrapped about his elbow, "to protect and preserve life; Not condone its end."

Mandel's face was a mix of shock and fury. "What are you doing up here? How did you get out of your bonds?"

"I've broken through chains before; did you think mere rope could hold me?" he answered vaguely. "Stop this, Mandel. Let her go."

"How could you have known what is happening here? You cannot hear anything from those sickbay cabins."

"Well when your surgeon attempted to bleed me to death, I figured something was up." And here, several crew looked skyward in confusion. Ames would have smiled if she were not being sentenced to death.

Instead, she glared accusingly at Mandel. "'You've been planning this from the beginning. Ever since you learned my name,'" in her best Will voice.

"I did as I saw fit. Now, burn for eternity, witch, and may God curse thy soul." And he raised his pistol to point it at her—although for the life of her, she couldn't figure how that would light the stake. And she wouldn't find out just yet, as the sounds of hundreds of guns being cocked swept over the ship. "What is the meaning of this mutiny!" Mandel cried, furious, when he saw the crew—marines and sailors alike—aiming all manner of firearms at him. It seemed one of the lieutenants had 'accidentally' unlocked the arms case.

"Did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong?" James asked, almost mockingly, taking a challenging step toward him. "They certainly think you are. They've been against your judgement from the beginning." He continued still nearer with the silent challenge, the crew surrounding both. If it came to a duel, there would be very little room. "It would seem that witch-hunting doesn't receive the support it once had." Mandel accepted the challenge with a few carefully placed steps toward his adversary, gun still aimed at the wooden platform hanging from the yardarm.

"Enchantment. This entire ship is enchanted with her. Otherwise they would not defend her with mutiny."

"Or perhaps they just like her. She is rather likeable, after all." They drew nearer to one another. "You need to get out of the last century and into this one, you old lizard. Killing a witch is still considered murder, no matter how you phrase it." They stopped, eye to eye, nose to nose, glaring fatally at one another.

"In defense of a stranger, they will act," the captain said with a twisted smile. "But if they want to defend their own, they must _not _act." The gun shifted from Amy to rest on one of the crew—the youngest ship's boy aboard, of an infantile nine years of age. Silence on the ship. "Drop your weapons, or the boy dies." To the dismay of James and Amy (not to mention the demon, Theodore, Jack, and others), several crew dropped their guns on the spot.

James addressed them. "The men of this navy have already been led to kill children once. You men, who have vowed to right those wrongs and protect justice: will you allow that nightmare to come alive a second time?" This was a dangerous place to be in. Many of the crew were now weighing their options, frozen with uncertainty. It could go either way. Amy herself thought she understood: she couldn't ask them to choose her, a strange stranger, over one of their own. "Will you ever allow that memory to die? Or shall an innocent girl be the one to die instead? Listen to me: your captain is not right in the head—that is to say, he is worse off than I am. You cannot indulge his fantasy. You cannot—." He broke off, stiffening. He had taken his eyes off Mandel to look imploringly at the crew, and in that time the captain had taken a knife and stabbed it into his side.

"JAMES!" His surprise had hardly registered on his face before he crumpled to the deck.

Assured that he no longer a threat, and taking advantage of his crew's distraction, a handful rushing out to the fallen commander, he turned his gun to Amy and pulled the trigger. There was a loud _crack!_ as it fired. She barely had time to realize that he had missed her before there was an explosion beneath her, and the platform burst into flame. The hollow space under her feet had been filled with gunpowder. As vermillion flames rose before her, she knew it was time to magic her way out. All she needed was to take a deep breath and she could blow it out. But the smoke choked her, and she couldn't breathe, and more importantly, couldn't sing—just like in her vision in the sailmaker's store. It had been her only option and it was gone. With her hands and feet tied so tightly, she couldn't make the graceful sweeping motions to summon the water, nor the dance-like moves to summon the wind. She couldn't magic! Perhaps one day she would be advanced enough to flick a finger and control the elements, but as it was, she still needed a lot of training. It was hot. She couldn't breathe. The flames danced around her, and it felt like she was on the surface of the sun. They snatched at her skin. She tried to scream, and choked on more smoke.

James found himself surrounded by a handful mixed of sailors and marines upon drowsily coming to. The wound, though deep and still with knife in, was not fatal; it had merely hit a pressure point, knocking him into a dead faint. A couple of sailors cried out in surprise as he abruptly came back to life, but he was unaware. The fuzziness in his mind only allowed him to focus on one thing, and we all know what that was. He motioned for a pistol and one was handed to him. The huddle around him parted to give him a clear shot, and with very careful aim, he fired.

Amy heard the second shot, instantly assuming that Mandel had been too impatient to let her burn. Instead, she felt herself falling—the rope that had held her up been severed by the shot—to plunge into the sea, flames quenched instantly with a loud hiss of protest. That was all well and dandy, except that now she was floating ten feet below the surface tied to the stake and what remained of the platform, with no way of getting to the surface. She struggled against her bonds with her waning strength, but could not get free. This was it then. As her vision darkened, she prayed her final prayer and succumbed herself to death.


End file.
